UC-NRLF 


CONSTANCE 

FeNi/noKe 
NA/OOLSON 


,  •ARTHURS.. 

'PIERSON,     . 
BOOKSAND  \ 
STATIONERY, 
318  POST  ST., 

w  SAN  FRANCISCO/ 


TWO    WOMEN. 


CONSTANCE    FENIMORE    WOOLSON 


TWO  WOMEN: 


1862. 
A     POEM. 


BY 

CONSTANCE   FENIMORE  WOOLSON. 


NEW  YORK: 
D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY, 

1893. 


COPYRIGHT   BY 
D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY, 

1877. 


TWO    WOMEN. 

1862. 
ONE. 

THROUGH  miles  of  green  cornfields  that  lusty 
And  strong  face  the  sun  and  rejoice 

In  his  heat,  where  the  brown  bees  go  dusty 
With  pollen  from  flowers  of  their  choice, 

'Mong  myriads  down  by  the  river 
Who  offer  their  honey,  the  train 

Flies  south  with  a  whir  and  a  shiver, 

Flies  south  through  the  lowlands  that  quiver 
With  ripening  grain — 

Fair  wheat,  like  a  lady  for  fancies, 
Who  bends  to  the  breeze,  while  the  corn 

Held  stiff  all  his  stubborn  green  lances 
The  moment  his  curled  leaf  was  born ; 

And  grapes,  where  the  vineyards  are  sweeping 
The  shores  of  the  river  whose  tide — 

449468 


TWO    WOMEN. 

Slow  moving,  brown  tide — holds  the  keeping 
Of  War  and  of  Peace  that  lie  sleeping, 
Couched  lions,  each  side. 

Hair  curlless,  and  hid,  and  smooth-banded, 

Blue  innocent  maidenly  eyes, 
That  gaze  at  the  lawless  rough-handed 

Young  soldiers  with  grieving  surprise 
At  oaths  on  their  lips,  the  deriding 

And  jestings  that  load  every  breath, 

While  on  with  dread  swiftness  are  gliding 

Their  moments,  and  o'er  them  is  biding 

The  shadow  of  death ! 

Face  clear-cut  and  pearly,  a  slender 

Small  maiden  with  calm,  home-bred  air  ; 

No  deep-tinted  hues  you  might  lend  her 
Could  touch  the  faint  gold  of  her  hair, 

The  blue  of  her  eyes,  or  the  neatness 
Of  quaint  little  gown,  smoothly  spun 

From  threads  of  soft  gray,  whose  completeness 

Doth  fit  her  withdrawn  gentle  sweetness — 
A  lily  turned  nun. 

Ohio  shines  on  to  her  border, 
Ohio  all  golden  with  grain ; 


THE   OTHER. 

The  river  comes  up  at  her  order, 
And  curves  toward  the  incoming  train ; 

"  The  river !     The  river !     O  borrow 
A  speed  that  is  swifter —    Afar 

Kentucky  !     Haste,  haste,  thou  To-morrow ! 

Poor  lads,  dreaming  not  of  the  sorrow, 
The  anguish  of  war. 


THE    OTHER. 

WEST  from  the  Capital's  crowded  throng 

The  fiery  engine  rushed  along, 

Over  the  road  where  danger  lay 

On  each  bridge  and  curve  of  the  midnight  way, 

Shooting  across  the  rivers'  laps, 

Up  the  mountains,  into  the  gaps, 

Through  West  Virginia  like  the  wind, 

Fire  and  sword  coming  on  behind, 

Whistling  defiance  that  echoed  back 

To  mountain  guerrillas  burning  the  track, 

"  Do  the  worst,  ye  rebels,  that  ye  can  do 

To  the  train  that  follows,  but  /  go  through !  " 


TWO    WOMEN. 

A  motley  crowd — the  city  thief; 

The  man  of  God ;  the  polished  chief 

Of  a  band  of  gamblers;  the  traitor  spy; 

The  correspondent  with  quick,  sharp  eye ; 

The  speculator  who  boldly  made 

His  fifty  per  cent,  in  a  driving  trade 

At  the  edge  of  the  war ;  the  clean  lank  clerk 

Sent  West  for  sanitary  work  ; 

The  bounty-jumper ;  the  lordling  born 

Viewing  the  country  with  wondering  scorn — 

A  strange  assemblage  filled  the  car 

That  dared  the  midnight  border-band, 

Where  life  and  death  went  hand-in-hand 

Those  strange  and  breathless  days  of  war. 

The  conductor's  lantern  moves  along, 

Slowly  lighting  the  motley  throng 

Face  by  face ;  what  sudden  gleam 

Flashes  back  in  the  lantern's  beam 

Through  shadows  down  at  the  rearward  door? 

The  conductor  pauses ;  all  eyes  explore 

The  darkened  corner :  a  woman's  face 

Thrown  back  asleep — the  shimmer  of  lace, 

The  sheen  of  silk,  the  yellow  of  gold, 

The  flash  of  jewels,  the  careless  fold 

Of  an  India  shawl  that  half  concealed 


THE  OTHER. 

The  curves  superb  which  the  light  revealed ; 
A  sweep  of  shoulder,  a  rounded  arm, 
A  perfect  hand  that  lay  soft  and  warm 
On  the  dingy  seat ;  all  the  outlines  rare 
Of  a  Milo  Venus  slumbered  there 
'Neath  the  costly  silk  whose  heaviest  fold 
Subordinate  seemed — unnoticed  mould 
For  the  form  beneath. 

The  sumptuous  grace 
Of  the  careless  pose,  the  sleeping  face, 
Transfixed  all  eyes,  and  together  drew 
One  and  all  for  a  nearer  view : 
The  lank  clerk  hasted,  the  gambler  trod 
On  the  heels  of  the  gazing  man  of  God ; 
The  correspondent  took  out  his  book, 
Sharpened  his  pencil  with  eager  look ; 
The  soldiers  fought  as  to  who  should  pass 
The  first ;  the  lord  peered  through  his  glass, 
But  no  sooner  saw  the  sleeping  face 
Than  he  too  hasted  and  left  his  place 
To  join  the  crowd. 

Then,  ere  any  spoke, 
But  all  eager  gazed,  the  lady  woke. 

Dark-brown,  sleepy,  velvet  eyes, 

Lifted  up  in  soft  surprise, 
2 


I0  TWO    WOMEN. 

A  wealth  of  hair  of  auburn  red, 
Falling  in  braids  from  the  regal  head 
Whose  little  hat  with  waving  plume 
Lay  on  the  floor — while  a  faint  perfume, 
The  roses,  crushed  in  sleep,  betrayed, 
Tangled  within  the  loosened  braid  ; 
Bold  features,  Nubian  lips,  a  skin 
Creamy  pallid,  the  red  within 
Mixed  with  brown  where  the  shadow  lies 
Dark  beneath  the  lustrous  eyes. 
She  smiles ;  all  hearts  are  at  her  feet. 
She  turns ;  each  hastens  to  his  seat. 
The  car  is  changed  to  a  sacred  place 
Lighted  by  one  fair  woman's  face ; 
In  sudden  silence  on  they  ride, 
The  lord  and  the  gambler,  side  by  side, 
The  traitor  spy,  the  priest  as  well, 
Bound  for  the  time  by  a  common  spell, 
And  each  might  be  in  thought  and  mien 
A  loyal  knight  escorting  his  queen, 
So  instant  and  so  measureless 
Is  the  power  of  a  perfect  loveliness. 


THE  MEETING. 


THE  MEETING. 

THE  Western  city  with  the  Roman  name, 

The  vine-decked  river  winding  round  the  hills, 

Are  left  behind ;  the  pearly  maid  who  came 

Down  from  the  northern  lake  whose  cool  breath  fills 

The  whole  horizon,  like  the  green,  salt  sea, 

Is  riding  southward  on  the  cautious  train, 

That  feels  its  way  along,  and  nervously 

Hurries  around  the  curve  and  o'er  the  bridge, 

Fearing  a  rebel  ball  from  every  ridge — 

The  wild  adventurous  cavalry  campaign 

That  Morgan  and  his  men,  bold  riders  all, 

Kept  up  in  fair  Kentucky  all  those  years, 

So  hot  with  daring  deeds,  with  glowing  tears, 

That  even  Peace  doth  sometime  seem  a  pall, 

When  men  in  city  offices  feel  yet 

The  old  wild  thrill  of  "  Boots  and  saddles  all !  " 

The  dashing  raid  they  cannot  quite  forget 

Despite  the  hasty  graves  that  silent  lie 

Along  its  route ;  at  home  the  women  sigh, 

Gazing  across  the  still  untrodden  ways, 

Across  the  fields,  across  the  lonely  moor, 

"  O  for  the  breathless  ardor  of  those  days 

When  we  were  all  so  happy,  though  so  poor !  " 


12  TWO    WOMEN. 

The  maiden  sits  alone ; 

The  raw  recruits  are  scattered  through  the  car, 
Talking  of  all  the  splendors  of  the  war, 
With  faces  grimed  and  roistering  braggart  tone. 
In  the  gray  dawning,  sweet  and  fair  to  view, 
Like  opening    wood -flower   pearled    with    morning 

dew, 

She  shines  among  them  in  her  radiance  pure, 
Notes  all  their  lawless  roughness,  sadly  sure 
They're  very  wicked — hoping  that  the  day 
Of  long-drawn  hours  may  safely  wear  away, 
And  bring  her,  ere  the  summer  sunset  dies, 
To  the  far  farm-house  where  her  lover  lies, 
Wounded — alone. 

The  rattling  speed  turns  slow, 
Slow,  slower  all  the  rusty  car-wheels  go, 
The  axles  groan,  the  brakes  grind  harshly  down ; 
The  young  conductor  comes — (there  was  a  face 
He  noted  in  the  night) — "  Madam,  your  place 
Will  soon  be  noisy,  for  at  yonder  town 
We  take  on  other  soldiers.     If  you  change 
Your  seat  and  join  that  little  lady,  then 
It  will  not  seem  so  lonely  or  so  strange 
For  you,  as  here  among  so  many  men." 
Lifting  her  fair  face  from  the  battered  seat, 
Where  she  had  slumbered  like  a  weary  child, 


THE  MEETING.  ! 

The  lady,  with  obedience  full  sweet 

To  his  young  manhood's  eager  craving,  smiled 

And  rose.     Happy,  the  flushed  youth  led  the  way ; 

She  followed  in  her  lovely  disarray. 

The  clinging  silk  disclosed  the  arched  foot, 

Hidden  within  the  dainty  satin  boot, 

Dead-black  against  the  dead-white  even  hue 

Of  silken  stocking,  gleaming  into  view 

One  moment ;  then  the  lady  sleepily 

Adjusted  with  a  touch  her  drapery, 

And  tried  to  loop  in  place  a  falling  braid, 

And  smooth  the  rippling  waves  the  night  had  made  ; 

While  the  first  sunbeams  flashing  through  the  pane 

Set  her  bright  gems  to  flashing  back  again ; 

And  all  men's  eyes  in  that  Kentucky  car 

Grew  on  her  face,  as  all  men's  eyes  had  done 

On  the  night-train  that  brought  her  from  afar, 

Over  the  mountains  west  from  Washington. 

THE  LADY  (thinking). 

Haply  met, 

This  country  maiden,  sweet  as  mignonette, 
No  doubt  the  pride  of  some  small  Western  town ; — 
Pity,  that  she  should  wear  that  hopeless  gown, 
So  prim — so  dull — a  fashion  five  years  old ! 


I4  TWO    WOMEN. 

THE  MAIDEN  (thinking). 

How  odd,  how  bold, 

That  silken  robe — those  waves  of  costly  lace, 
That  falling  hair,  the  shadows  'neath  the  eyes, 
Surely  those  diamonds  are  out  of  place —    ' 
Strange,  that  a  lady  should  in  such  a  guise 
Be  here  alone ! 

THE  LADY. 

Allow  me,  mademoiselle, 
Our  good  conductor  thinks  it  would  be  well 
That  we  should  keep  together,  since  the  car 
Will  soon  be  overcrowded,  and  we  are 
The  only  women. — May  I  have  a  seat 
In  this  safe  little  corner  by  your  side  ? 
Thanks ;  it  is  fortunate,  indeed,  to  meet 
So  sweet  a  friend  to  share  the  long  day's  ride  ! — 
That  is,  if  yours  be  long  ? 

THE  MAIDEN. 

To  Benton's  Mill. 

THE  LADY. 

I  go  beyond,  not  far — I  think  we  pass 
Your  station  just  before  Waunona  Hill ; 
But  both  are  in  the  heart  of  the  Blue  Grass. 
Do  you  not  love  that  land  ? 


THE  MEETING.  15 

THE  MAIDEN. 

I  do  not  know 
Aught  of  it. 

THE  LADY. 

Yes ;  but  surely  you  have  heard 
Of  the  fair  plains  where  the  sweet  grasses  grow, 
Just  grass,  naught  else ;  and  where  the  noble  herd 
Of  blooded  cattle  graze,  and  horses  bred 
For  victory — the  rare  Kentucky  speed 
That  wins  the  races  ? 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Yes;  I've  heard  it  said 
They  were  good  worthy  horses. — But  indeed 
I  know  not  much  of  horses. 

THE  LADY. 

Then  the  land— 

The  lovely,  rolling  land  of  the  Blue  Grass, 
The  wild  free  park  spread  out  by  Nature's  hand 
That  scarce  an  English  dukedom  may  surpass 
In  velvet  beauty — while  its  royal  sweep 
Over  the  country  miles  and  miles  away, 
Dwarfs  man-made  parks  to  toys ;  the  great  trees  keep 
Their  distance  from  each  other,  proud  array 


X6  TWO    WOMEN. 

Of  single  elms  that  stand  apart  to  show 

How  gracefully  their  swaying  branches  grow, 

While  little  swells  of  turf  roll  up  and  fall 

Like  waves  of  summer  sea,  and  over  all 

You  catch,  when  the  straight  shafts  of  sunset  pass 

Over  the  lea,  the  glint  of  the  Blue  Grass. — 

But  you  will  see  it. 

THE  MAIDEN. 
No ;  I  cannot  stay 
But  a  few  hours — at  most,  a  single  day. 

THE  LADY  (imheeding). 

I  think  I  like  the  best, 

Of  all  dumb  things,  a  horse  of  Blue-Grass  breed, 
The  Arab  courser  of  our  own  new  West, 
The  splendid  creature,  whose  free-hearted  speed 
Outstrips  e'en  time  itself.     Oh  !  when  he  wins 
The  race,  how,  pulsed  with  pride,  I  wave  my  hand 
In  triumph,  ere  the  thundering  shout  begins, 
And  those  slow,  cautious  judges  on  the  stand, 
Have  counted  seconds !     Is  it  not  a  thrill 
That  stirs  the  blood,  yet  holds  the  quick  breath  still  ? 

THE  MAIDEN. 
I  ne'er  have  seen  race-horses,  or  a  race. 


THE  MEETING. 

THE  LADY. 
I  crave  your  pardon  ;  in  your  gentle  face 

I  read  reproof. 

THE  MAIDEN. 

I  judge  not  any  man. 

THE  LADY. 
Nor  woman  ? 

THE  MAIDEN. 
If  you  force  reply,  I  can 

Speak  but  the  truth.     The  cruel,  panting  race, 
For  gamblers*  prizes,  seems  not  worthy  place 
For  women — nor  for  men,  indeed,  if  they 
Were  purer  grown.     Of  kindred  ill  the  play, 
The  dinner  loud  with  wine,  the  midnight  dance^ 
The  deadly  poison  of  all  games  of  chance — 
All  these  are  sinful. 

THE  LADY. 

Ah  !  poor  sins,  how  stern 
The  judge !     I  knew  ye  not  for  sins — I  learn 
For  the  first  time  that  ye  are  evil.     Go, 
Avaunt  ye !     So  my  races  are  a  woe — 
Alas  !     And  David  Garrick  ! — Where's  the  harm 

In  David  ? 

THE  MAIDEN. 

I  know  not  the  gentleman. 


xg  TWO    WOMEN'. 

THE  LADY. 

Nay,  he's  a  play ;  a  comedy  so  warm, 

So  pitiful,  that,  let  those  laugh  who  can, 

/  weep.     And  must  I  yield  my  crystal  glass, 

Dewy  with  ice,  and  fragrant  with  rare  wine, 

That  makes  a  dreary  dinner-party  pass 

In  rosy  light,  where  after-fancies  shine — 

Things  that  one  might  have  said  ? — And  then  the  dance, 

The  valse  &  deux  temps,  if  your  partner  chance 

To  be  a  lover — 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Madam,  pray  excuse 
My  seeming  rudeness ;  but  I  must  refuse 
To  dwell  on  themes  like  these. 

THE  LADY. 

Did  I  begin 
The  themes,  or  you  ? 

THE  MAIDEN. 

But  /  dwelt  on  the  sin, 
And  you — 

THE  LADY. 

Upon  the  good.     Did  I  not  well  ? 
I  gave  you  good  for  evil,  mademoiselle. 


THE  MEETING.  19 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Forgive  me,  lady,  but  I  cannot  jest, 
I  bear  too  anxious  heart  within  my  breast ; 
One  dear  to  me  lies  wounded,  and  I  go 
To  find  him,  help  him  home  with  tender  care — 
To  home  and  health,  God  willing. 

THE  LADY. 

Is  it  so  ? 

Strange — but  ah !  no.     The  wounded  are  not  rare, 
Nor  yet  the  grief,  in  this  heart-rending  war. — 
But  he  will  yet  recover ;  I  feel  sure 
That  one  beloved  by  heart  so  good,  so  pure 
As  yours,  will  not  be  taken.     Sweet,  your  star 

Is  fortunate. 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Not  in  the  stars,  I  trust. 
We  are  but  wretched  creatures  of  the  dust, 
Sinful,  and  desperately  wicked ;  still, 
It  is  in  mercy  our  Creator's  will 
To  hear  our  prayers. 

THE  LADY. 

And  do  you  then  believe 

He  grants  all  heart-felt  prayers  ?    One  might  conceive 
A  case :  Suppose  a  loving  mother  prays 
For  her  son's  life ;  he,  worn  with  life's  hard  ways, 


2o  TWO    WOMEN. 

Entreats  his  God  for  death  with  equal  power 
And  fervor. 

THE  MAIDEN. 
It  is  wrong  to  pray  for  death. 

THE  LADY. 

I  grant  it  not.     But,  say  in  self-same  hour 
A  farmer  prays  for  rain ;  with  'bated  breath 
A  mother,  hastening  to  a  dying  child, 
Prays  for  fair  weather  ? — But  you  do  not  deign 
To  listen.     Ah !  I  saw  you  when  you  smiled 
That  little,  silver  smile !     I  might  explain 
My  meaning  further ;  but  why  should  I  shake 
Your  happy  faith  ? 

THE  MAIDEN. 
You  could  not. 


THE  LADY. 

Nay,  that's  true ; 

You  are  the  kind  that  walks  up  to  the  stake 

Unflinching  and  unquestioning.     I  sue 

For  pardon,  and  I  pray  you  tell  me  all 

This  tale  of  yours.     When  did  your  lover  fall — 

What  battle-field? 


THE  MEETING.  21 

THE  MAIDEN. 
Not  any  well-known  name  ; 
It  was  not  Heaven's  pleasure  that  the  fame 
Of  well-known  battle  should  be  his.     A  band 
Of  wild  guerrillas  raiding  through  the  land, 
Shot  him,  and  left  him  bleeding  by  the  way. 

THE  LADY. 
Guerrillas  ? 

THE  MAIDEN. 
Yes ;  John  Morgan's. 

THE  LADY. 

Maybe  so, 

And  maybe  not ;  they  bear  a  seven-leagued  name 
That  many  hide  beneath ;  each  shot,  each  blow, 
Is  trumpeted  as  theirs,  and  all  the  blame 
Falls  on  their  shoulders,  be  it  what  it  may — 
Now  truth,  and  now  but  falsehood.     Morgan's  men 
Are  bold  Kentucky  riders ;  every  glen 
Knows  their  fleet  midnight  gallop ;  every  map 
Kept  by  our  soldiers  here  is  scored  with  marks 
Where  they  have  been ;  now  near,  now  miles  away, 
From  river  lowland  to  the  mountain-gap, 
Swift  as  the  rushing  wind.     No  watch-dog  barks 
When  they  ride  by,  no  well-versed  tongues  betray 


22  TWO    WOMEN. 

• 

Their  resting-place ;  Kentucky  knows  her  own, 
Gives  silent,  helpful  welcome  when  they  pass 
Across  her  borders  north  from  Tennessee, 
Heading  their  horses  for  the  far  Blue  Grass, 
The  land  of  home,  the  land  they  long  to  see, 
The  lovely  rolling  land.     We  might  have  known 
That  come  they  would  ! 

THE  MAIDEN. 

You  are  Kentucky-bred  ? 

THE  LADY. 

I  come  from  Washington.     Nay — but  I  read 
The  doubt  you  try  to  hide.     Be  frank — confess — 
I  am  that  mythical  adventuress 
That  thrives  in  Washington  these  troublous  days — 
The  country  correspondent's  tale  ? 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Your  dress — 
And — something  in  your  air — 

THE  LADY. 

I  give  you  praise 
For  rare  sincerity.     Go  on. 


THE  MEETING.  2$ 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Your  tone, 

Your  words,  seem  strange. — But  then,  I've  never  known 
A  woman  like  you. 

THE  LADY  (aside). 

Yet  we  are  not  few, 

Thank  Heaven,  for  the  world's  sake !    It  would  starve 
If  gray  was  all  its  color,  and  the  dew 
Its  only  nectar.     With  a  pulsing  haste 
It  seeks  the  royal  purples,  and  draws  down 
The  luscious  bunches  to  its  thirsty  taste, 
And  feels  its  blood  hot-thrilled,  a  regal  crown 
Upon  its  brow ;  and  then,  its  hands  do  carve 
The  vine-leaves  into  marble. 

But  the  hue 

Of  thoughts  like  these  she  knows  not — and  in  vain 
To  tell  her.     Yet,  sweet  snow-drop,  I  would  fain 
Hear  her  small  story. 

(Speaks.)  Did  he  fall  alone, 

Your  gallant  soldier-boy  ?     And  how  to  you 
Came  the  sad  news? 

THE  MAIDEN. 

A  farmer  heard  him  moan 
While  passing — bore  him  to  the  camp,  and  there 


24  TWO    WOMEN. 

A  captain  from  our  lake-shore  wrote  me  word 

Ere  the  brigade  moved  on;  which,  when  I  heard, 

I  left  my  mother,  ill,  for  in  despair 

He  cried,  they  wrote,  for  me.     He  could  not  know 

That  they  had  written,  for  hot  fever  drove 

His  thoughts  with  whips  of  flame. — O  cruel  woe, 

— O  my  poor  love — 
My  Willie ! 

THE  LADY. 

Do  not  grieve,  fair  child.     This  day 
Will  see  you  by  his  side — nay,  if  you  will, 
Then  lay  your  head  here — weep  your  grief  away. 
Tears  are  a  luxury — yes,  take  your  fill ; 
For  stranger  as  I  am,  my  heart  is  warm 
,To  woman's  sorrow,  and  this  woman's  arm 
That  holds  you  is  a  loyal  one  and  kind. 
(Thinking.)  O  gentle  maiden-mind, 
How  lovely  art  thou — like  the  limpid  brook 
In  whose  small  depths  my  child-eyes  loved  to  look 
In  the  spring  days !     Thy  little  simple  fears 
Are  wept  away.     Ah  !  could  /  call  the  tears 
At  will  to  soothe  the  parched  heat  of  my  heart ! 

— O  beautiful  lost  Faith, 

I  knew  you  once — but  now,  like  shadowy  wraith, 
You  meet  me  in  this  little  maiden's  eyes, 
And  gaze  from  out  their  blue  in  sad  surprise 


THE  MEETING.  25 

At  the  great  gulf  between  us.     Far  apart, 

In  truth,  we've  drifted — drifted.     Gentle  ghost 

Of  past  outgrown,  thy  land  the  hazy  coast 

Of  dreamless  ignorance ;  I  must  put  out 

My  eyes  to  live  with  you  again.     The  doubt, 

The  honest,  earnest  doubt,  is  upward  growth 

Of  the  strong  mind — the  struggle  of  the  seed 

Up  to  the  broad,  free  air.     Contented  sloth 

Of  the  blind  clods  around  it  sees  no  need 

For  change — nay,  deems,  indeed,  all  change  a  crime ; 

"  All  things  remain  as  in  our  fathers'  time — 

What  gain  ye  then  by  growing  ?  " 

"  Air — free  air  ! 

E'en  though  I  die  of  hunger  and  despair, 
I  go,"  the  mind  replies. 

THE  MAIDEN  (thinking). 

How  kind,  how  warm 
Her  sympathy !     I  could  no  more  resist 
Her  questions,  than  the  large  clasp  of  her  arm 
That  drew  me  down.     How  tenderly  she  kissed 
My  forehead !  strange  that  so  much  good  should  dwell 
With  so  much  ill.     This  shining,  costly  dress, 
A  garb  that  shows  a  sinful  worldliness, 
Troubles  my  heart. 

Ah,  I  remember  well 
4 


26  TWO    WOMEN. 

How  hard  I  worked  after  that  letter  came 
Telling  of  Willie — and  my  sisters  all, 
How  swift  we  sewed !     For  I  had  suffered  shame 
At  traveling  in  house-garb. 

— I  feel  a  call 

To  bring  this  wanderer  back  into  the  fold, 
This  poor  lost  sinner  straying  in  the  cold 
Outside  the  church's  pale.     Should  I  not  try 
To  show  her  all  the  sad  deficiency, 
The  desperate  poverty  of  life  like  hers, 
The  utter  falseness  of  its  every  breath, 
The  pity  that  within  my  bosom  stirs 
For  thinking  of  the  horrors  after  death 
Awaiting  her  ? 

THE  LADY. 

Quite  calm,  again  ?     That's  well. 
Wilt  taste  a  peach  ?     My  basket  holds  a  store 
Of  luscious  peaches.     Ah !  she  weaves  a  spell, 
This  lovely  sorceress  of  fruit ;  what  more 
Can  man  ask  from  the  earth  ?     There  is  no  cost 
Too  great  for  peaches.     I  have  felt  surprise 
Through  all  my  life  that  fair  Eve  should  have  lost 
That  mythic  Asian  land  of  Paradise 
For  a  poor  plebeian  apple  !     Now  a  peach, 
Pulpy,  pink-veined,  hanging  within  her  reach, 
Might  well  have  tempted  her. 


THE  MEETING. 


27 


Oh,  these  long  hours  ! — 
Whence  comes  this  faint  perfume  of  hot-house  flowers — 

Tea-roses  ? 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Tangled  in  your  loosened  hair 

Are  roses. 

THE  LADY  (thinking). 

Nita  must  have  twined  them  there — 
The  opera — I  know  now  ;  I  have  sped 
So  swift  across  the  country,  my  poor  head 
Is  turned. — The  opera  ?     Yes ;  then — O  heart, 
How  hast  thou  bled !  \Dashes  away  tears.] 

(Speaks)  Sweet  child,  I  pray  you  tell 

Again  your  budding  romance,  all  the  part 
Where  he  first  spoke.    You'd  known  him  long  and  well, 

Your  Willie  ? 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Yes ;  in  childhood  we  had  been 
Two  little  lovers  o'er  the  alphabet ; 
Then  one  day — I  had  grown  to  just  sixteen — 
Down  in  the  apple-orchard — there — we  met, 
By  chance — and — 

THE  LADY  (thinking). 

Blush,  thou  fine-grained  little  cheek, 
It  comforts  me  to  see  that  e'en  thy  meek 
Child-beauty  knows  enough  of  love  to  blush. 


28  TWO    WOMEN. 

(Speaks.)  Nay,  you  flush 

So  prettily !     Well,  must  /  tell  the  rest  ? 
You  knew,  then,  all  at  once,  you  loved  him  best, 
This  gallant  Willie  ? 

THE  MAIDEN  (thinking). 

What  has  come  to  me 
That  I  do  answer,  from  reserve  so  free, 
This  stranger's  questions  ?     Yet  may  it  not  chance 
My  confidence  shall  win  hers  in  return  ? 
I  must  press  on,  nor  give  one  backward  glance — 
Must  follow  up  my  gain  by  words  that  burn 
With  charity  and  Christian  zeal. 

(Speaks.)  Yes;  then 

We  were  betrothed.     I  wore  his  mother's  ring, — 
And  Willie  joined  the  church ;  before  all  men 
He  made  the  promises  and  vows  which  bring 
A  blessing  down  from  God.     Dear  lady,  strength 
From  Heaven  came  to  us.     Could  I  endure 
This  absence,  silence,  all  the  weary  length 
Of  hours  and  days  and  months,  were  I  not  sure 
That  God  was  with  my  Willie  ?     If  on  you 
Sorrow  has  fallen,  lady  (and  those  tears 
Showed  me  its  presence),  seek  the  good,  the  true, 
In  this  sad  life ;  a  prayer  can  calm  all  fears ; 
Yield  all  your  troubles  to  your  God's  control, 


THE  MEETING.  29 

And  He  will  bless  you.     Ah !  where  should  /  be 
Did  I  not  know  that  in  my  Willie's  soul 
Came  first  the  love  of  God,  then  love  for  me  ? 

THE  LADY. 
His  love  for  you  comes  second? 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Would  you  have 
A  mortal  love  come  first ! 

THE  LADY. 

Sweet  heart,  I  crave 

Your  pardon.     For  your  gentle  Christian  zeal 
I  thank  you.     Wear  this  gem — 'twill  make  me  feel 
That  I  am  something  to  you  when  we  part. 
But  what  the  "  silence  ?  " 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Ten  months  (they  seem  years  !) 
Since  Willie  joined  the  army ;  and  my  heart 
Bore  it  until  his  letters  ceased;  then  tears 
Would  come — would  come  ! 

THE  LADY. 

Why  should  the  letters  cease  ? 


3o  TWO    WOMEN. 

THE  MAIDEN. 

I  know  not ;  I  could  only  pray  for  peace, 
And  his  return.     No  doubt  he  could  not  write, 
Perplexed  with  many  duties ;  his  the  care 
Of  a  thronged  camp,  where,  ever  in  his  sight, 
The  new  recruits  are  drilled. 

THE  LADY  (thinking). 

Oh,  faith  most  rare ! 
(Speaks.)    Had  you  no  doubts  ? 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Why  should  I  doubt  ?    We  are 
Betrothed — the  same  forever,  near  or  far ! 

— He  knew  my  trust 
Was  boundless  as  his  own. 

THE  LADY. 

But  still  you  must 

In  reason  have  known  something — must  have  heard 
Or  else  imagined — 

THE  MAIDEN. 

For  three  months  no  word 
Until  this  letter ;  from  its  page  I  learned 
That  my  poor  Willie  had  but  just  returned 


THE  MEETING.  3! 

To  the  brigade,  when  struck  down  unaware. 
It  seems  he  had  been  three  months  absent. 

THE  LADY. 

—Where  ? 
THE  MAIDEN. 

They  did  not  say.     I  hope  to  bear  him  home 
To-morrow;  for  in  truth  I  scarce  could  come, 
So  ill  my  mother,  and  so  full  my  hands 
Of  household  cares ;  but,  Willie  understands. 

THE  LADY  (thinking). 

del!  faith  like  this  is  senseless — or  sublime  ! 
Which  is  it? 

(Speaks).     But  three  months — so  long  a  time — 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Were  it  three  years,  'twould  be  the  same.     The  troth 
We  plighted,  freely,  lovingly,  from  both 
Our  true  hearts  came. 

THE  LADY  (thinking). 

And  may  as  freely  go — 

Such  things  have  happened  !     But  I  will  not  show 
One  glimpse  of  doubt  to  mar  the  simple  trust 
She  cherishes ;  as  soon  my  hand  could  thrust 
A  knife  in  the  dove's  breast. 


32  TWO    WOMEN. 

(Speaks.)  You'll  find  him,  dear ; 

All  will  go  well ;  take  courage.     Not  severe 

His  wound  ? 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Not  unto  death ;  but  fever  bound 
His  senses.     When  the  troops  moved  on,  they  found 
A  kindly  woman  near  by  Benton's  Mill ; 
And  there  he  lies,  poor  Willie,  up  above 
In  her  small  loft,  calling,  in  tones  that  thrill : 
"  Oh,  come  to  me,  my  love,  my  love,  my  love !" — 
Here  is  his  picture. 

THE  LADY. 

What !  'tis  Meredith ! 
The  girl  is  mad ! — Give  it  me  forthwith ! 
How  came  -you  by  it  ? 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Madam,  you  will  break 
The  chain.     I  beg — 

THE  LADY. 

Here  is  some  strange  mistake. 
This  picture  shows  me  Meredith  Reid. 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Yes,  Reid 

Is  Willie's  name ;  and  Meredith,  indeed, 


THE  MEETING. 

Is  his  name  also — Meredith  Wilmer.     I 
Like  not  long  names,  so  gave  him,  lovingly, 
The  pet  name  Willie. 

THE  LADY. 

O  ye  Powers  above ! 

The  "  pet  name  Willie  !"    Would  you  try  to  chain 
Phoebus  Apollo  with  your  baby-love 
And  baby-titles  ?     Scarce  can  I  refrain 
My  hands  from  crushing  you  ! — 

You  are  that  girl, 

Then,  the  boy's  fancy.     Yes,  I  heard  the  tale 
He  tried  to  tell  me ;  but  it  was  so  old, 
So  very  old !  I  stopped  him  with  a  curl 
Laid  playfully  across  his  lips.     "  Nay,  hoid ! 
Enough,  enough,"  I  said;  "of  what  avail 
The  rest  ?     I  know  it  all ;  'tis  e'er  the  same 
Old  story  of  the  country  lad's  first  flame 
That  burns  the  stubble  out.     Now  by  this  spell 
Forget  it  all."     He  did  ;  and  it  was  well 
He  did. 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Never !  oh,  never !     Though  you  prove 
The  whole  as  clear  as  light,  I'd  ne'er  receive 
One  word.     As  in  my  life,  so  I  believe 
In  Willie ! 


33 


34  TWO    WOMEN. 

THE  LADY. 

Fool  and  blind  !   your  God  above 
Knows  that  I  lie  not  when  I  say  that  he 
You  dwarf  with  your  weak  names  is  mine,  mine,  mine ! 
He  worships  me — dost  hear  ?     He  worships  me, 
Me  only !     What  art  thou,  a  feeble  child, 
That  thou  shouldst  speak  of  loving  ?     Haste,  aside, 
Lest  we  should  drown  you  in  the  torrent  wild 
Of  our  strong  meeting  loves,  that  may  not  bide 
Nor  know  your  dying,  even  ;  feeble  weed 
Tossed  on  the  shore —  [The  maiden  faints. 

Why  could  I  not  divine 

The  truth  at  first  ?  [Fans  her. 

Fierce  love,  why  shouldst  thou  kill 
This  little  one  ?     The  child  hath  done  no  ill, 
Poor  wounded,  broken  blossom.     I  should  pour 
My  gentlest  pity — 

THE  MAIDEN  (recovering). 

Madam,  thanks ;  no  more 
Do  I  require  your  aid. 

THE  LADY  (aside). 

How  calm  she  seems, 

How  cold  her  far-off  eyes !     Poor  little  heart. 
The  pity  of  it !  all  its  happy  dreams, 


THE  MEETING.  35 

With  a  whole  life's  idolatry  to  part 
In  one  short  moment. 

(Speaks.)  Child,  let  us  be  friends ; 

Not  ours  the  fault,  it  is  the  work  of  Fate. 
And  now,  before  your  hapless  journey  ends, 
Say,  in  sweet  charity,  you  do  not  hate 
Me  for  my  love.     Trust  me,  I'll  tend  him  well ; 
As  mine  own  heart's  blood,  will  I  care  for  him 
Till  strong  again.     Then  shall  he  come  and  tell 
The  whole  to  you — the  cup  from  dregs  to  brim — 

How,  with  undoubting  faith 
In  the  young  fancy  that  he  thought  was  love 
For  you,  he  came  a-down  the  glittering  path 
Of  Washington  society ;  above 
The  throng  I  saw  his  noble  Saxon  head, 
Sunny  with  curls,  towering  among  the  rest 
In  calm  security — scorn  that  is  bred 
Of  virtue,  and  that  largeness  which  your  West 
With  its  wide  sweep  of  fields  gives  to  her  sons — 
A  certain  careless  largeness  in  the  look, 
As  though  a  thousand  prairie-miles  it  took 
Within  its  easy  range. 

Ah !     blindly  runs 

Our  fate.     We  met,  we  two  so  far  apart 
In  every  thought,  in  life,  in  soul,  in  heart — 
Our  very  beings  clashed.     He,  fair,  severe; 


36  TWO    WOMEN. 

I,  dark  and  free ;  bis  days  a  routine  clear, 
Lighted  by  conscience ;  I,  in  waking  dream 
Of  colors,  music,  warmth,  the  scents  of  flowers, 
The  sweep  of  velvet,  and  the  diamond's  gleam, 
A  cloud  of  romance  heavy  on  the  air, 
The  boudoir  curtained  from  the  light  of  day, 
Where  all  the  highest  came  to  call  me  fair, 
And  whispered  vows  I  laughed  in  scorn  away. 
Was  it  my  fault  that  Nature  chose  to  give 
The  splendid  beauty  of  this  hair,  these  eyes, 
This  creamy  skin  ?     And  if  the  golden  prize 
Of  fortune  came  to  me,  should  I  not  live 
In  the  rich  luxury  my  being  craved  ? 
I  give  my  word,  I  no  more  thought  of  time — 
Whether  'twas  squandered,  trifled  with,  or  saved, 
Than  the  red  rose  in  all  her  damask  prime. 
Each  day  I  filled  with  joys  full  to  the  brim — 
The  rarest  fruits  and  wines,  the  costliest  lace, 
The  ecstasy  of  music,  every  whim 
For  some  new  folly  gratified,  the  grace 
Of  statues  idealized  in  niches,  touch 
Of  softest  fabrics.     Ah !  the  world  holds  much 
For  those  who  love  her ;  and  I  never  heard 
In  all  my  happy  glowing  life  one  word 
Against  her,  till — he  came ! 

We  met,  we  loved, 


THE  MEETING. 

Like  flash  of  lightning  from  a  cloudless  sky, 
So  sudden,  strange,  the  white  intensity — 
Intensity  resistless !     Swift  there  moved 
Within  his  heart  a  force  unknown  before, 
That  swept  his  being  from  that  early  faith 
Across  a  sea,  and  cast  it  on  the  shore 
Prone  at  my  feet. 

He  minded  not  if  death 
Came,  so  he  could  but  gaze  upon  my  face. 

— But,  bending  where  he  lay  (the  youthful  grace 
Of  his  strong  manhood,  in  humility 
Prone,  by  love's  lightnings),  so  I  bended  me 
Down  to  his  lips,  and  gave  him — all ! 

Sweet  girl, 

Forgive  me  for  the  guiltless  robbery, 
Forgive  him,  swept  by  fateful  Destiny ! 
He  spoke  of  one,  the  child-love  of  his  youth  ; 
I  told  of  my  child-marriage.     But,  in  truth, 
No  barrier,  had  it  been  a  thousand-fold 
Stronger  than  boyish  promise,  e'er  could  hold 
Natures  like  ours ! 

You  see  it,  do  you  not? 
You  understand  it  all. 

— I  had  forgot, 
But  this  the  half-way  town ;  the  train  runs  slow, 


37 


38  TWO    WOMEN. 

No  better  place  than  this.     But,  ere  you  go, 

Give  me  one  silent  hand-clasp,  little  pearl. 

I  ask  you  not  to  speak,  for  words  would  seem 

Too  hard,  too  hard.     Yet,  some  time,  when  the  dream 

Of  girlhood  has  dissolved  before  the  heat 

Of  real  love,  you  will  forgive  me,  sweet. 

THE  MAIDEN. 
I  fail  to  comprehend  you.     Go  ?     Go  where  ? 

THE  LADY. 

gack  to  your  home;  here  waits  the  north-bound  train; 
'Twill  bear  you  safely.     To  go  on  were  pain 
Most  needless — cruel. 

THE  MAIDEN. 

I  am  not  aware 

That  I  have  said  aught  of  returning.     Vain 
Your  false  and  evil  story.     I  have  heard 
Of  such  as  you ;  but  never,  on  my  word 
As  lady  and  as  Christian,  did  I  think 
To  find  myself  thus  side  by  side  with  one 
Who  flaunts  her  ignominy  on  the  brink 
Of  dark  perdition ! 

Ah !  my  Willie  won 

The  strong  heart's  victory  when  he  turned  away 
From  your  devices,  as  I  know  he  turned. 


THE  MEETING. 


39 


Although  you  follow  him  in  this  array 

Of  sin,  I  know  your  evil  smiles  he  spurned 

With  virtuous  contempt — the  son  of  prayers, 

The  young  knight  of  the  church !     My  bosom  shares 

His  scorn ;  take  back  your  ring,  false  woman.     Go ! 

Move  from  my  side. 

THE  LADY. 

Dear  Heaven,  now  I  know 
How  pitiless  these  Christians ! 

Unfledged  girl, 

Your  little,  narrow,  pharisaic  pride 
Deserves  no  pity ;  jealousy's  wild  whirl 
Excuse  might  be,  since  that  is  born  of  love ; 
But  this  is  scorn,  and,  by  the  God  above, 
I'll  set  you  in  your  place ! 

*Do  you  decide 

The  right  and  wrong  for  this  broad  world  of  ours, 
Poor  little  country-child,  whose  feeble  eyes 
Veiled  o'er  with  prejudice  are  yet  so  wise 
That  they  must  judge  the  earth,  and  call  it  good 
Or  evil  as  it  follows  their  small  rules, 
The  petty,  narrow  dogmas  of  the  schools 
That  hang  on  Calvin  ! 

Doubtless  prairie-flowers 
Esteem  the  hot-house  roses  evil  all ; 


40  TWO    WOMEN. 

But  yet  I  think  not  that  the  roses  should 
Go  into  mourning  therefor ! 

Oh,  the  small, 

Most  small  foundation  for  a  vast  conceit ! 
Is  it  a  merit  that  you  never  learned 
But  one  side  of  this  life  ?     Because  you  dwelt 
Down  in  a  dell,  there  were  no  uplands  sweet, 
No  breezy  mountain-tops  ?     You  never  yearned 
For  freedom,  born  a  slave  !     You  never  felt 
The  thrill  of  rapture,  the  wild  ecstasy 
Of  mere  existence  that  strong  natures  know, 
The  deep  and  long-drawn  breaths,  the  burning  glow 
Of  blood  that  sunward  leaps ;  but,  in  your  dell, 
You  said :   "  This  is  the  world.     If  all,  like  me, 
Walked  on  this  one  straight  line,  all  would  go  well !" 

O  fool !  O  blind ! 

O  little  ant  toiling  along  the  ground  ! 
You  cannot  see  the  eagle  on  the  wind 
Soaring  aloft ;  and  so  you  go  your  round 
And  measure  out  the  earth  with  your  small  line, 
An  inch  for  all  infinity !     "  Thus  mine 
Doth  make  the  measure  ;  thus  it  is." 

Proud  girl ! 

You  call  me  evil.     There  is  not  a  curl 
In  all  this  loosened  hair  which  is  not  free 
From  sin  as  your  smooth  locks.     Turn ;  look  at  me ! 


THE  MEETING.  4I 

I  flout  you  with  my  beauty !     From  my  youth 
Beside  my  mother's  chair,  by  God's  own  truth, 
I've  led  a  life  as  sinless  as  your  own. 
Your  innocence  is  ignorance ;  but  I 
Have  seen  the  Tempter  on  his  shining  throne, 
And  said  him  nay.     You  craven  weaklings  die 
From  fear  of  dangers  I  have  faced !  /I  hold 
Those  lives  far  nobler  that  contend  and  win 
The  close,  hard  fight  with  beautiful,  fierce  Sin, 
Than  those  that  go  untempted  to  their  graves, 
Deeming  the  ignorance  that  haply  saves 
Their  souls,  some  splendid  wisdom  of  their  own  \) 

You  fold 
Yourself  in  scornful  silence  ?     I  could  smile, 

0  childish  heart,  so  free  from  worldly  guile, 
Were  I  not  angered  by  your  littleness. 

You  judge  my  dress 

The  garb  of  sin  ?     Listen.     I  sat  and  heard 
The  opera  ;  by  chance  there  fell  a  word 
Behind  me  from  a  group  of  men  who  fill 
Night  after  night  my  box.     My  heart  stood  still. 

1  asked — they  told  the    name.      "Wounded,"  they 

said, 

"  A  letter  in  the  journal  here."     I  read, 
Faced  them  with  level  eyes ;  they  did  not  know, 

But  wondered,  caught  the  truth,  to  see  me  go 
6 


42  TWO    WOMEN. 

Straight  to  my  carriage.  "  Drive  !  The  midnight  train." 
We  reached  it,  breathless. 

Had  I  worn  fair  white, 
A  ballroom-robe,  I'd  do  the  same  to  gain 
One  moment  more  of  time. 

THE  MAIDEN. 

And  by  what  right — 
Are  you  his  wife  ? 

THE  LADY. 

I  am  not ;  but  to-night 
I  shall  be,  if  I  live.     Your  scorn,  poor  child, 
Is  thrown  away.     Bound  by  his  soldier's  oath, 
I  would  not  keep  him.     No  Omphale  I, 
Though  he  be  Hercules.     We  plighted  troth, 
And  then,  when  called,  he  went  from  me — to  die 
If  need  be.     I  remember  that  I  smiled 
When  they  marched  by  ! 

Love  for  my  country  burns 
Within  my  heart ;  but  this  was  love  for  him. 
I  could  not  brook  him,  one  who  backward  turns 
For  loving  wife ;  his  passion  must  not  dim 
The  soldier's  courage  stern.     Then  I  had  wealth, 
The  golden  wealth  left  me  by  that  old  man 
Who  called  me  wife  for  four  short  months ;  by  stealth 
He  won  me,  but  a  child ;  the  quiet  plan 


THE  MEETING.  43 

Was  deftly  laid.     I  do  not  blame  him  now. 

My  mother  dead — one  kind  thought  was  to  save 

My  budding  youth  from  harm.     The  thoughtless  vow 

I  made  was  soon  dissevered  by  the  grave, 

And  I  was  left  alone.     Since  then  I've  breathed 

All  pleasures  as  the  flowers  breathe  in  the  sun, 

At  heart  as  innocent  as  they ;  red-wreathed 

My  careless  life  with  roses,  till  the  one 

Came !     Then  the  red  turned  purple  deep,  the  hope 

Found  itself  love  ;  the  rose  was  heliotrope. 

There  needed  much 

To  do  with  lawyers'  pens  ere  I  could  give 
My  hand  again ;  so  that  dear,  longed-for  touch 
Was  set  by  me  for  the  full-blooming  day 
When  Peace  shall  drive  the  demon  War  away 
Forever.     I  was  wrong.     Oh,  let  him  live, 
Kind  God!     Love   shall  be  wronged  no  more — no 

more. 

All  my  own  heart's  life  will  I  gladly  pour 
For  one  small  hour  of  his. — Wait — wait — I  fly 
To  thee,  my  love,  on  swiftest  wings !     Thy  cry 
The  depths  of  grief  too  hot  for  tears  doth  move : 
"  Oh,  come  to  me,  my  love,  my  love,  my  love !  " 

THE  MAIDEN. 
It  was  not  you  he  called ! 


44  TWO    WOMEN. 

THE  LADY. 
Ah !  yes. 

THE  MAIDEN. 

He  is 

Not  false  ;  1*11  ne'er  believe  it,  woman. 

THE  LADY. 

His 

The  falseness  of  the  pine-tree,  felled,  uptorn 
By  the  great  flood,  and  onward  madly  borne 
With  the  wild,  foaming  torrent  miles  away. — 
No  doubt  he  loved  the  violet  that  grew 
In  the  still  woods  ere  the  floods  came ;  he  knew 
Not  then  of  roses ! 

THE  MAIDEN. 
Cruel  eyes,  I  say 

But  this  to  all  your  flashings — you  have  lied 
To  me  in  all ! 

THE  LADY. 

Look,  then,  here  at  my  side 

His  letters — read  them.     Did  he  love  me  ?     Read ! 
Aha !  you  flush,  you  tremble,  there's  no  need 
To  show  you  more  ;  the  strong  words  blanch  your  cheek. 
See,  here  his  picture ;  could  I  make  it  speak, 
How  it  would  kill  you !     Yes,  I  wear  it  there 


THE  MEETING.  45 

Close  to  my  heart.     Know  you  this  golden  hair 
That  lies  beside  it  ? 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Should  he  now  confess 

The  whole — yes,  tell  me  all  your  tale  was  true, 
I  would  not  leave  him  to  you,  sorceress ! 
I'd  snatch  him  from  the  burning — I  would  sue 
His  pardon  down  from  heaven.     I  shall  win 
Him  yet,  false  woman,  and  his  grievous  sin 
Shall  be  forgiven. 

(Bows  her  head  upon  her  hands.)     O  God  let  him  die 
Rather  than  live  for  one  who  doth  belie 
All  I  have  learned  of  Thee ! 

Train  stops  suddenly. — Enter  CONDUCTOR. 

CONDUCTOR. 

The  bridge  is  down, 

The  train  can  go  no  farther.     Morgan's  band 
Were  here  last  night !     There  is  a  little  town 
Off  on  the  right,  and  there,  I  understand, 
You  ladies  can  find  horses.     Benton's  Mill 
Is  but  a  short  drive  from  Waunona  Hill. — 
Can  I  assist  you  ? 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Thanks ;  I  must  not  wait.       [Exit. 


46  TWO    WOMEN. 

THE  LADY. 

Yes ;  that  my  basket — that  my  shawl.  O  Fate  ! 
How  burdened  are  we  women !  Sir,  you  are 
Most  kind ;  and  may  I  trouble  you  thus  far  ? 
Find  me  the  fleetest  horses ;  I  must  reach 
Waunona  Hill  this  night.     I  do  beseech 
All  haste ;  a  thousand  dollars  will  I  give 
For  this  one  ride.  {Exeunt. 

A  SOLDIER. 

Say,  boys,  I'd  like  to  live 
Where  I  could  see  that  woman !     I  could  fight 
A  regiment  of  rebels  in  her  sight — 
Couldn't  you  ? 

THE  OTHERS. 
Yes — yes !  \Exeunt  omnes. 


THE   DRIVE. 

THE  LADY  (thinking). 
O  FAIR  Kentucky  !  border-land  of  war, 
Thou  rovest  like  a  gypsy  at  thy  will 
Between  the  angry  South  and  stubborn  North. 


THE  DRIVE. 


47 


Across  thy  boundaries  many  times  from  far 

Sweep  Morgan's  men,  the  troopers  bold  who  fill 

Ohio  with  alarm ;  then,  marching  forth 

In  well-drilled  ranks  with  flag,  and  fife,  and  drum, 

From  camp  and  town  the  steady  blue-coats  come, 

March  east,  march  west,  march  north,  march   south, 

and  find 

No  enemy  except  the  lawless  wind. 
No  sooner  gone — Lo !  presto  through  the  glen 
Is  heard  the  midnight  ride  of  Morgan's  men: 
They  ford  the  rivers  by  the  light  of  stars, 
The  ringing  hoofs  sound  through  the  mountain-pass ; 
They  draw  not  rein  until  their  glad  huzzas 
Are  echoing  through  the  land  of  the  Blue  Grass. 

— O  lovely  land, 

O  swell  of  grassy  billows  far  and  near, 
O  wild,  free  elms,  whose  swaying  arms  expand 
As  if  to  clasp  me,  hold  my  love  as  dear 
As  thine  own  son !     I  hasten  to  his  side — 
Ye  roads,  lie  smooth ;  ye  streams,  make  safe  the  ford ; 
O  chivalrous  Kentucky,  help  the  bride 
Though  thou  hast  wounded  with  thy  rebel  sword 
The  foeman  bridegroom ! 

....  Can  it  be  that  girl 
Who  rides  in  front  ?     I  thought  her  left  behind 


48  TWO    WOMEN. 

In  that  small  town,     del!  would  I  could  hurl 

The   slim   thing   down   this  bank !     Would   I   could 

bind 

Those  prim,  long-fingered,  proper  hands  of  hers 
Behind  her  drooping,  narrow-shouldered  back, 
And  send  her  home !     A  heart  like  that  transfers 
Its  measured,  pale  affections  readily, 
If  the  small  rules  it  calleth  piety 
Step  in  between  them.     Otherwise,  the  crack 
Of  doom  would  not  avail  to  break  the  cord 
Which  is  not  love  so  much  as  given  word 
And  fealty,  that  conscientiousness 
Which  weigheth  all  things  be  they  more  or  less, 
From  fold  of  ribbon  to  a  marriage-vow, 
With  self-same  scales  of  duty.     Shall  I  now 
Ride  on  and  pass  her — for  her  horse  will  fail 
Before  the  hour  is  out  ?     Of  what  avail 
Her  journey  ? 

(Speaks)     Driver,  press  forward. — Nay,  stop — 
(Aside.)     O  what  a  child  am  I  to  waver  thus ! 
I  know  not  how  to  be  ungenerous, 
Though  I  may  try — God  knows  I  truly  tried. 
What's  this  upon  my  hand  ?     Did  a  tear  drop  ? 

(Speaks.)  By  your  side 

Behold  me,  maiden ;  will  you  ride  with  me  ? 
My  horses  fleet  and  strorg. 


THE  DRIVE.  49 

THE  MAIDEN. 

I  thank  you — no. 

THE  LADY  (aside). 

She  said  me  nay ;  then  why  am  I  not  free 
To  leave  her  here,  and  let  my  swift  steeds  go 
On  like  the  wind  ? 

(Speaks?)  Ho !  driver — 

(Aside?)  But,  alas ! 

I  cannot. 

(Speaks?)     Child,  my  horses  soon  will  pass 
In  spite  of  me ;  they  are  so  fleet  they  need 
The  curb  to  check  them  in  their  flying  speed. 
Ours  the  same  journey :  why  should  we  not  ride 
Together? 

THE  MAIDEN. 
Never ! 

THE  LADY. 
Then  I  must  abide 
By  your  decision. — Driver,  pass. 

(Thinking?)  I  take 

Her  at  her  word.     In  truth,  for  her  own  sake 
'Twere  charity  to  leave  her,  hasten  on, 
Find  my  own  love,  and  with  him  swift  be  gone 
Ere  she  can  reach  him ;  for  his  ardor  strong 


5o  TWO    WOMEN. 

(Curbed,  loyal  heart,  so  long!), 
Heightened  by  fever,  will  o'ersweep  all  bounds, 
And  fall  around  me  in  a  fiery  shower 
Of  passion's  words. —    And  yet — this  inner  power — 
This  strange,  unloving  justice  that  surrounds 
My  careless  conscience,  will  not  let  me  go ! 

(Speaks.)  Ho ! 

Driver,  turn  back. 

— Maiden,  I  ask  again — 
I  cannot  take  advantage.     Come  with  me ; 
That    horse  will    fail    you    soon  —  ask;    both  these 

men 

Will  tell  you  so. — Come,  child — we  will  agree 
The  ride  shall  count  as  naught ;  nay,  when  we  reach 
The  farm-house,  all  shall  be  as  though  no  speech 
Had  ever  passed  between  us — we  will  meet 
Beside  his  couch  as  strangers. 

(Speaks.)  There's  defeat 

For  thee,  O  whispering  tempter ! 

THE  MAIDEN  (to  the  men). 

Is  it  true  ? 
Will  the  horse  fail  ? 

ONE  OF  THE  MEN. 
Yes. 


THE  DRIVE. 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Madam,  then  with  you 

I  needs  must  ride. — I  pray  you  take  my  share 
Of  payment ;  it  were  more  than  I  could  bear 
To  be  indebted  to  you. 

THE  LADY. 

Nay — the  sum 
Was  but  a  trifle. 

(Aside.)  Now  forgive  me,  truth. 

But  was  it  not  a  trifle  to  such  wealth — 
Such  wealth  as  mine  ? 

(Speaks.)  Heard  you  that  distant  drum 

Borne  on  the  wind  a  moment  ?     Ah !  our  youth 
Is  thrilled  with  the  great  pulses  of  this  war. 
How  fast  we  live — how  full  each  crowded  hour 
Of  hot  excitements  !     Naught  is  done  by  stealth, 
The  little  secrecies  of  other  days 
Thrown  to  the  winds;  the  clang  and  charge  afar 
On  the  red  battle-field,  the  news  that  sways 
Now  to,  now  fro,  'twixt  victory  and  defeat ; 
The  distant  cry  of  "  Extra !  "  down  the  street 
In  the  gray  dawnings,  and  our  breathless  haste 
To  read  the  tidings — all  this  mighty  power 
Hath  burned  in  flame  the  day  of  little  things, 


52  TWO    WOMEN. 

Curled  like  a  scroll — and  now  we  face  the  kings, 
The  terrible,  the  glorious  gods  of  war. 
— The  maid  forgets  her  shyness  ;  wherefore  waste 
One  moment  when  the  next  may  call  him  forth 
Ne'er  to  return  to  her  ?     The  dear  old  North 
May  take  her  lover — but  he  shall  not  go 
With  lips  unkissed  to  meet  his  Southern  foe ; 
Her  last  embrace  will  cheer  him  on  his  round 
Now  back,  now  forth,  over  the  frozen  ground 
Through  the  long  night. 

— And  when  the  hasty  word 
"  Only  one  day ;  be  ready,  love,"  is  heard, 
The  soft  consent  is  instant,  and  there  swells 
Amid  the  cannonade  faint  wedding-bells 
From  distant  village ;  then,  as  swift  away 
The  soldier  bridegroom  rides — he  may  not  stay. 
And   she  ? — She  would  not    keep    him,  though  the 

tears 

Blind  her  sweet  eyes  that  follow  him,  and  fears 
Crowd  her  faint  heart  and  take  away  her  breath, 
As  on  her  white  robe  falls  the  shade  of  Death 
That  waits  for  him  at  Shiloh ! 

O  these  days ! 

When  we  have  all  gone  back  to  peaceful  ways, 
Shall  we  not  find  sweet  Peace  a  little  dull  ? 
— You  do  not  speak. 


THE  DRIVE. 

THE  MAIDEN. 
Madam,  my  heart  is  full 

Of  other  thoughts. 

THE  LADY. 

Of  love  ? — Pray — what  is  love  ? 
How  should  a  woman  love  ? — Although  we  hate 
Each  other  well,  we  need  not  try  to  prove 
Our  hate  by  silence — for  there  is  a  fate 
Against  it  in  us  women ;  speak  we  must, 
And  ever  shall  until  we're  turned  to  dust, 
Nay — I'm  not  sure  but  even  then  we  talk 
From  grave  to  grave  under  the  churchyard-walk— 
Whose  bones  last  longest — whose  the  finest  shroud 
And — is  there  not  a  most  unseemly  crowd 
In  pauper's  corner  yonder  ? 

— You  are  shocked  ? 

You  do  not  see,  then,  that  I  only  mocked 
At  my  own  fears — as  those  poor  French  lads  sang 
Their  gayest  songs  at  the  red  barricade, 
Clear  on  the  air  their  boyish  voices  rang 
In  chorus,  even  while  the  bayonet  made 
An  end  of  them. — He  may  be  suffering  now — 
He  may  be  calling — 

There !  I've  made  a  vow 
To  keep  on  talking.     So,  then — tell  me,  pray, 
How  should  a  woman  love  ? 


54  TWO    WOMEN. 

THE  MAIDEN. 

I  can  but  say 

How  I  do  love. 

THE  LADY. 

And  how  ? 

THE  MAIDEN. 

With  faith  and  prayer. 

THE  LADY. 

I,  too  ;  my  faith  is  absolute.     We  share 
That  good  in  common.     I  believe  his  love 
Is  great  as  mine,  and  mine — oh,  could  I  prove 
My  love  by  dying  for  him,  far  too  small 
The  test ;  I'd  give  my  love,  my  soul,  my  all, 
In  life,  in  death,  in  immortality, 
Content  in  hell  itself  (if  there  be  hells — 
Which  much  I  doubt) — content,  so  I  could  be 

With  him ! 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Is  it  a  woman's  tongue  that  tells 
This  blasphemy  ?     When  I  said  faith,  I  meant 
A  faith  in  God. 

THE  LADY. 

And  God  is  love  !     He  sent 
This  love  that  fills  my  heart.     Oh,  most  divine — 
Oh,  nearest  to  him  of  all  earthly  things, 


THE  DRIVE. 

A  love  that  passeth  self — a  love  like  mine 
That  passeth  understanding.     The  bird  sings 
Because  it  is  the  only  way  he  knows 
To  praise  his  Maker ;  and  a  love  that  flows 
Like  mine  is  worship,  too — a  hymn  that  rolls 
Up  to  the  God  of  Love,  who  gave  us  souls 
To  love  with.     Then  the  hidden  sacrifice  ; 
It  formed  a  part  of  worship  once,  and  I 
Do  hold  it  now  the  part  that  deepest  lies 
In  woman's  love,  the  dim  sanctuary 
Behind  the  veil,  holy  of  holies,  kept 
E'en  from  the  one  she  loves  :  all  told,  except 
This  mystic  feeling  which  she  may  not  know 
How  to  express  in  words — the  martyr's  glow 
Idealized — the  wish  to  give  him  joy 
Through  her  own  suffering,  and  so  destroy 
All  part  that  self  might  play — to  offer  pure 
Her  love  to  her  heart's  idol.     Strange,  obscure, 
Sacred,  but  mighty,  is  this  longing ;  I 
Can  feel  though  not  define  it.     I  would  die 
To  make  him  happy ! 

THE  MAIDEN. 

As  his  happiness 

Depends  on  me,  then  can  you  do  no  less 
Than  yield  him  to  me — if  you  love  him  thus. 


56  TWO    WOMEN. 

THE  LADY  (thinking). 

"  As,"  said  she?     Heart,  but  this  is  fabulous, 
This  calm  security  of  hers  ! 

(Speaks.)  Why,  child, 

Hast  never  heard  of  passion,  and  its  wild, 
Impetuous,  unreasoning  assault 
On   souls   that  know  not   their  own   depths?     The 

fault 

Not  his  :  he  was  but  young,  he  did  not  know 
Himself.     Might  he  not  love  me  even  though 
Thou  wert  the  best  ?     Have  pity !  I  appeal 
To  all  the  woman  in  thee.     Dost  thou  feel 
That  one  touch  of  his  hand  would  call  the  blood 
Out  from  thy  heart  in  an  overwhelming  flood 
To  meet  it  ? 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Nay,  I  know  not  what  you  speak. 

THE  LADY. 

Thou  dost  not,  that  I  see.     Thy  pearly  cheek 
Keeps  its  fair  white. 

Sweet  child,  he's  that  and  more 
To  me.    Ah,  let  me  kneel ;  thus  I  implore 
That  thou  wouldst  yield  him  to  me — all  the  right 
His  boyhood  promise  gave  thee. 


THE  DRIVE.  5 

THE  MAIDEN. 

In  the  sight 

Of  Heaven  we  are  betrothed  ;  I  cannot  break 
My  word. 

THE  LADY. 

Oh,  not  for  mine,  but  for  his  sake ! 
He  loves  me ! 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Only  madness,  that  will  burn 
And  die  to  ashes ;  but,  the  fever  past, 
The  old,  pure  love  will  steadfastly  return 
And  take  its  rightful  place. 

THE  LADY. 

But  should  it  last, 

This  fever-madness  ?  should  he  ask  your  grace, 
And  say  he  loved  me  best  ? 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Then,  to  his  face 
I'd  answer,  Never!     What!  leave  him  to  sin? 

THE  LADY. 
And  what  the  sin  ? 

THE  MAIDEN. 
8  You  !  you  !     You  have  no  faith, 


5  8  TWO    WOMEN. 

No  creed,  that  I  can  learn.     The  Bible  saith 
All  such  are  evil. 

THE  LADY  (aside). 
Why  did  I  begin 
Such  hopeless  contest  ? 

(Speaks)  Child,  if  he  should  lie 

Before  us  now,  and  one  said  he  must  die 
Or  love  me,  wouldst  thou  yield  ? 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Never ;  as  dead 
He  would  be  in  God's  hands ;  living — 

THE  LADY. 

In  mine. 

THE  MAIDEN. 
That  is,  in  atheism. 

THE  LADY. 
Have  I  said 

Aught  atheistical  ?     Because  my  faith 
Is  broader  than  its  own,  this  conscience  saith 
I  am  an  atheist !     Ah,  child,  is  thine 
A  better  faith  ?     Yet,  be  it  what  it  may, 
Should  he  now  lie  before  us  here,  and  say 
He  loved  thee  best,  I'd  yield  him  though  my  heart 


THE  DRIVE. 


59 


Should  stop — though  I  should  die.     Yea,  for  his  sake, 
To  make  him  happy,  I  would  even  take 
Annihilation  ! — let  the  vital  spark 
Called  soul  be  turned  to  nothing. 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Far  apart 
Our  motives ;  mine  is  clear  with  duty — 

THE  LADY. 

Dark 
And  heavy  mine  with  love. 

THE  MAIDEN. 

You  talk  of  death 

With  frequent  phrase,  as  though  a  little  thing, 
A  matter  merely  of  the  will  and  breath, 
It  were  to  face  the  judgment,  and  the  King 
Who  has  not  summoned  you.     Your  flippant  tongue 
Rolls  out  its  offers  as  a  song  is  sung, 
And,  both  mean  nothing;  for  the  chance  to  die 
For  one  we  love,  that  glorious  gift,  comes  now 
But  rarely  in  this  life  that  you  and  I 
Must  bear  our  part  in.     Thus,  no  empty  vow 
Do  /  repeat ;  and  yet,  I  surely  know, 
At  duty's  call  right  calmly  could  I  go 
Up  the  red  scaffold's  stairs. 


60  TWO    WOMEN-. 

THE  LADY. 

I  well  believe 

Thee,  steadfast  maiden-voice.     Nay,  I  conceive 
My  love,  thy  duty,  are  alike — the  same 
Self-sacrifice  under  a  various  name 
According  to  our  natures.     I  would  yield, 
And  thou  refuse  to  yield,  from  the  same  love ; 
I'd  have  him  happy  here,  and  thou — above. 
For  thus  we  look  at  life. 

The  book  is  sealed 

That  holds  our  fate — we  may  not  look  within ; 
But  this  I  know,  that,  be  it  deadly  sin 
Or  highest  good,  he  loves  me ! 

THE  MAIDEN. 

There  are  loves — 

And  loves ! 

THE  LADY. 

So  be  it     All  this  word-work  proves 
Nothing.     Then  let  it  end.     Though  there's  a  charm 
In  speech — but  you  are  tired.     'Twill  be  no  harm 
To  rest  you  on  my  shoulder,  though  its  creed 
(Poor  shoulder !)  is  not  orthodox. 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Indeed, 
I  need  not  rest. 


THE  DRIVE.  g! 

THE  LADY. 

Well,  then,  I'm  half  asleep 
Myself,  and  you  the  silent  watch  may  keep. — 
(Thinking.)  I've  whiled  the  time  away;  but,  thou  dear 

God, 

Who  made  me,  how  with  bleeding  feet  have  trod 
The  toiling  moments  through  my  heart !     I  pray 
(For  I  believe  that  prayer  may  aid  the  soul, 
Though  not  the  body  nor  the  fixed  control 
Of  Nature)  that  his  love  may  hold  its  sway 
E'en  as  I  saw  him  last,  when,  at  my  feet, 
He  lavished  his  young  heart  in  burning  tide 
Of  loving  words.     Oh,  not  for  mine  own  joy, 
But  his,  I  pray  this  prayer ;  do  thou  destroy 
All  my  own  part  in  it. — Ah,  love,  full  sweet 
Shall  be  our  meeting.     Lo !  the  longed-for  bride 
Comes — of  her  own  accord.     There  is  no  bliss, 
Even  in  heaven,  greater  than  the  kiss 
That  I  do  keep  for  thee  ! 

THE  MAIDEN  (thinking). 

O  God,  thy  will 

Be  done — yes,  first  of  all,  be  done  !     (Bide  still, 
Thou  wicked,  rebel  heart !)     Yet,  O  Lord,  grant 
This  grace  to  me,  a  lowly  supplicant. 
My  mind  is  vexed,  evil  thoughts  do  rage 


62  TWO    WOMEN. 

Within  my  soul ;  O  Merciful,  assuage 
The  suffering  I  endure  ! — If  it  is  true 
My  poor  boy  loves  this  woman — and  what  is 
Is  ever  for  the  best — create  anew 
Her  soul  that  it  may  surely  leaven  his 
With  holiness.     Oh,  stretch  Thy  mighty  arm 
And  win  her  to  Thy  fold,  that  she  may  be 
A  godly  woman,  graced  with  piety, 
Turned  from  the  error  of  her  ways,  the  harm 
Of  all  her  worldliness,  the  sinful  charm 
Of  her  fair  face  (if  it  be  fair,  though  I 
Think  her  too  brown)  changed  by  humility 
To  decorous  sweetness. — 

Lord,  look  in  my  heart ; 
I  may  not  know  myself;  search  every  part, 
And  give  me  grace  to  say  that  I  will  yield 
My  love  to  hers  if  Thy  will  stands  revealed 
In  his  swift  preference. 

Yet,  in  pity,  hear — 
Change  her,  Lord — make  her  good  !  \_  Weeps. 


THE  LADY  (thinking). 

Is  that  a  tear 

On  her  soft  cheek  ?     She  has  her  little  griefs, 
Then,  as  the  children  have ;  their  small  beliefs 


THE  FARM-HOUSE.  63 

Are  sometimes  brought  to  naught — no  fairies  live, 
And  dolls  are  sawdust ! — 

Love,  I  do  forgive 

Your  boyish  fancy,  for  she's  lily  fair ; 
But  no  more  could  content  you  now  than  dew 
Could  hope  to  fill  Niagara  with  its  rare, 
Fine  drops  that  string  the  grass-blade's  shining  hue, 
Upon  the  brink. — Dearest,  I  call !     Oh,  see 
How  all  my  being  rushes  toward  thee  !     Wait, 
E'en  though  before  thine  eyes  bright  heaven's  gate 
Let  out  its  light :  angels  might  envy  thee 
Such  love  as  I  shall  give  thee — wait !  oh,  wait ! 


THE  FARM-HOUSE. 

THE  LADY. 

THE  sun  is  setting,  we  have  passed  the  mill 
Some  time ;  the  house  is  near  Waunona  Hill, 
But  the  road  smooth  this  way — which  doth  account 
For  the  discrepancy  of  names.     The  gleam 
Of  the  low  sun  shines  out  beneath  that  mass 
Of  purple  thunder-cloud ;  when  we  surmount 
This  little  swell  of  land,  its  slanting  beam 


64  TWO    WOMEN. 

Will  light  up  all  the  lances  of  the  grass, 
The  steely  hue,  the  blue  of  the  Blue  Grass. 

That  is  the  house  off  on  the  right ;  I  know 
By  intuition. 

THE  MAIDEN. 

It  may  hold — the  worst ! 

THE  LADY. 
Art  faint  ? 

THE  MAIDEN. 

'Twill  pass.     Lady,  I  enter  first — 
First  and  alone ! 

THE  LADY. 

Child,  if  I  thought  his  heart 
Longed  for  the  sight  of  you,  I'd  let  you  go  ; 
Nay,  I  would  make  you  !     As  it  is — 

But  no, 
It  cannot  be. 

THE  MAIDEN  (clasping  her  hands). 

Lord,  give  me  strength  !     I  yield ; 
Go  you  the  first.     Ah !  [Sobs. 

THE  LADY. 

Yours  the  nobler  part ; 
/  cannot  yield.     (And  yet  it  is  for  him 


THE  FARM-HOUSE.  65 

I  hold  this  "  cannot  "  firm.)     What  might  you  wield 
With  that  unflinching  conscience-power !     See,  dim 
Mine  eyes — 

There ;  we  will  go  together — thus  ! 
God  help  us  both !  \_They  enter  the  house. 

Yes,  we  have  come,  we  two, 
His  nearest,  dearest.     Is  it  perilous, 
The  fever  ?     Where— above  ?     That  stair  ?     We  go- 
Come,  child — come,  child. 

WOMAN  OF  THE  HOUSE. 

Dear  ladies,  you  should  know 
Before— 

THE  LADY. 
Come! 

WOMAN  OF  THE  HOUSE. 
He— 

THE  LADY. 

Child,  must  I  wait  for  you 
Here  at  his  door ! 

THE  MAIDEN. 
I  come ;  but  something  cold 

Has  touched  my  heart. 
9 


66  TWO    WOMEN. 

THE  LADY. 

Then  stay,  coward ! 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Nay,  hold ; 

I  come.  \_They  mount  the  stairs  together. 

(Crying  out  above)  But  he  is  dead — my  Willie ! 

THE  LADY  (above). 

Fate, 
You've  gained  the  day  at  last !     Yes,  he  is  dead ! 


B  Y    THE    DEAD. 

WOMAN  OF  THE  HOUSE. 
HE  died  last  night  at  three — quite  easily. 

THE  LADY. 

Alone? 

WOMAN  OF  THE  HOUSE. 

A  surgeon  from  the  camp  was  here. 


BY   THE  DEAD.  67 

THE  LADY. 
Where  is  the  man  ? 

WOMAN  OF  THE  HOUSE. 
Gone  back.  * 

THE  LADY. 

Send  for  him. 

See, 

Here  is  a  trifle ;  though  it  cannot  clear 
Our  debt  to  you,  yet  take  it. 

WOMAN  OF  THE  HOUSE. 

But  you  give 
Too  much. 

THE  LADY. 

Keep  it. 

THE  MAIDEN  (kneeling  by  the  bedside]. 

O  Willie  !  can  I  live 

Without  you  ?     Love,  my  love,  why  are  you  dead 
And  I  alive  ?     O  noble,  golden  head, 
Whose  every  curl  I  know,  how  still  you  lie 
On  this  poor  pillow,  and  how  dreamlessly 
You  sleep !     But  waken  now ;  look  on  me,  dear ; 
Open  those  close-shut  eyes,  for  I  am  here — 


68  TWO    WOMEN. 

Yes,  here  all  this  long  way  from  home.     Oh,  speak — 
Speak  to  me,  Willie. — Ah,  how  cold  his  cheek — 
How  icy  cold  !     O  God !  he's  dead,  he's  dead ! 

WOMAN  OF  THE  HOUSE. 
Yes,  he  is  dead,  dead  as  King  David.     Truth 
He  was  right  handsome  for  a  Yankee  youth — 
Rode  his  horse  well. 

THE  LADY  (aside). 

I  love  you,  Meredith. 

THE  MAIDEN. 

What's  this  upon  the  table  near  his  hand  ? 

[Opens  the  package. 

My  picture — yes,  my  letters — all !     Herewith 
I  know — I  know  he  loved  me  ! 

THE  LADY  (thinking). 

Cover  worn, 

Creased  in  its  folds,  unopened,  and  forlorn — 
Yes,  I  remember  it.     I  would  not  look 
Within ; — unopened  since  that  day. 

He  took 

The  poor  thing  forth  with  dying  loyalty 
To  send  to  her. 


BY  THE  DEAD.  <59 

THE  MAIDEN. 
O  Lord,  I  understand 

Thy  purpose  ;  'twas  to  try  my  faith.     I  kneel 
To  thank  thee  that  mercy  doth  reveal 
The  whole  to  my  poor  heart.     He  loved  me — me, 
Me  only ! 

WOMAN  OF  THE  HOUSE. 

Would  you  like  to  see  the  wound 
Here  in  his  arm  ? — Why,  if  she  hasn't  swooned  ! 

THE  LADY. 
Take  her  below,  and  care  for  her,  poor  child ! 

\Exit  woman,  carrying  the  maiden  in  her  arms. 

Brain,  art  thou  wild, 

Distraught,  that  thou  canst  all  things  calmly  hear 
And  answer,  when  my  pulses  reel,  my  heart 
Stands  still,  and  cold  through  every  vital  part 
Death  breathes  his  icy  breath  ? 

Oh,  my  own  love ! 

I  clasp  thee  in  my  arms,  come  back  to  me ! 
O  ice-cold  lips  I  kiss,  ye  are  as  dear 
As  ever !     Come  !     Thy  idol  waits  for  thee, 
Waits — weeps. 

Dost  thou  not  hear  me  there  above 
Where  thou  hast  gone  ?    Come  back  and  take  the  bride 
Who  nestles  weeping,  longing,  at  the  side 


7o  TWO    WOMEN. 

Of  thy  deserted  body.     Oh !  most  fair 
Thy  earthly  tenement,  the  golden  hair 
Curls  as  when  my  poor  fingers  twined  it  last, 
Thy  head  upon  my  breast.     O  browned  cheek ! 
Can  I  not  warm  thee  with  mine  own?     Oh,  speak — 
Speak  to  me,  Meredith ! 

Poor  wounded  arm, 

Dear  blood ;  here  will  I  hold  thee  close  and  warm 
Upon  my  heart.     Dost  thou  not  feel  me  now  ? 
And  now  ?     And  now  ?     Do  I  not  hold  thee  fast  ? 
Hast  thou  not  longed  for  me  ? 

I  gave  my  vow 

To  be  thine  own.     See !  I  am  come.     My  hand 
I  lay  in  thine.     Oh,  speak  to  me !     Command 
My  every  breath ;  full  humbly  I  obey, 
The  true  wife  longs  to  feel  a  master's  sway, 
Longs  to  do  homage,  so  her  idol  prove 
Ruler — nay,  despot  of  her  willing  love. 
Didst  thou  not  hear  me  whisper  while  she  spake. 
"  I  love  thee — oh,  I  love  thee,  Meredith  ?  " 
I  would  not  that  her  childish  grief  should  break 
Thy  peace  up  in  thy  heaven ;  even  there 
Thou  longest  for  my  love,  and  near  the  stair 
Where  souls  come  up  from  earth  thou'rt  standing  now 
Watching  for  me.     O  darling,  from  thy  brow 
I  catch  the  radiance ! 


BY  THE  DEAD.  7I 

She  is  not  thine, 

Thou  art  not  hers.     The  boyish  pledge  wherewith 
She  strives  to  hold  thee  was  the  radiancy 
Of  early  dawn,  which  now  the  mighty  sun 
Hath  swept  away  in  fervent  heat ;  nor  thee 
Nor  her  it  binds.     Her  pretty  youth  will  run 
Its  swift  course  to  some  other  love ;  Fate 
Ne'er  lets  such  sweet  maids  pine,  though  they  may 

try; 

A  few  months  lent  to  tearful  constancy, 
The  next  to  chastened  sorrow,  slow  decline 
To  resignation ;  then,  the  well-masked  bait 
Of  making  some  one  happy,  though  at  cost 
Of  sweet  self-sacrifice,  which  soon  is  lost 
In  that  content  which,  if  not  real  love, 
Looks  strangely  like  it !     But  why  should  I  prove 
What  thou  dost  know  already,  freed  from  time 
And  finite  bonds,  my  darling  ? 

Love  sublime, 

Art  thou  not  God  ?     Then  let  him  down  to  me 
For  one  short  moment.     See !  in  agony 
I  cling  to  the  cold  body ;  let  him  touch 
Me  once  with  this  dear  hand ;  it  is  not  much 
I  ask — one  clasp,  one  word. 

What!  nothing?     Then 
I  call  down  vengeance  on  this  God  of  men 


72  TWO    WOMEN. 

Who  makes  us  at  his  will,  and  gives  us  hearts 

Only  to  rend  them  in  a  hundred  parts, 

And  see  them  quiver — bleed !     I,  creature,  dare 

To  call  aloud  for  justice ;  my  despair 

Our  great  far-off  Creator  doth  arraign 

Before  the  bar  to  answer  for  the  pain 

I  suffer  now.     It  is  too  much — too  much ! 

0  woe  !  woe !  woe !  the  human  soul  can  such 
Intensity  of  sorrow  not  withstand, 

But,  lifting  up  on  high  its  fettered  hand, 
Can  only  cry  aloud  in  agony, 
And  blindly,  wildly  curse  its  God  and  die  ! 
How  dare  you  take, 

You  Death,  my  love  away  from  me  ?  The  old, 
The  weak,  the  loveless,  the  forlorn,  were  there 
In  crowds,  and  none  to  miss  them.  But  your 

cold 

And  heartless  eye  did  mark  that  he  was  fair, 
And  that  I  loved  him  ?     From  your  dreadful  hold 

1  snatch  my  darling,  and  he  yet  shall  wake 
From  out  your  sleep  by  my  caresses.     See, 
See  how  I  love  him !     Ah,  shall  I  not  win 
His  life  back  with  my  lips,  that  lovingly 

Do  cling  to  his?     And,  though  you  do  begin 
Your  icy  work,  these  arms  shall  keep  him  warm — 
Nay,  more :  my  loving  verily  disarm 


BY  THE  DEAD. 


73 


E'en  you,  O  King  of  Terrors !     You  shall  turn 
And  give  him  back  to  me  ;  a  heart  shall  burn 
Under  your  ribs  at  last  from  very  sight 
Of  my  fierce,  tearless  grief. 

— O  sorry  plight 

Of  my  poor  darling  in  this  barren  room, 
Where  only  his  gold  curls  do  light  the  gloom ! 
But  we  will  change  all  that.     This  evening,  dear, 
Shall  be  our  bridal :  wilt  thou  take  me,  here, 
And  thus  ? — in  this  array — this  falling  hair — 
Crushed  robes  ?     And  yet,  believe  me,  I  am  fair 
As  ever. 

Love,  love,  love !  oh,  speak  to  me ! 
I  will  not  listen  in  my  misery 
If  thy  heart  beat — 

God!  it  is  cold! 

{Falls  to  the  floor. 

Enter  the  SURGEON. 

SURGEON. 

Art  ill, 

Madam  ? — 

THE  LADY  (rising). 

Thanks,  sir.     But  sorrow  cannot  kill. 
Would  that  it  could !     Nay,  I  sit  by  his  side — 

Thus.     Now  tell  all— all— all. 
10 


74 


TWO    WOMEN. 


SURGEON. 

You  cannot  hide 

The  deadly  faintness  that  has  paled  your  cheek ; 
Let  me  get — 

THE  LADY. 

Nothing.     Nothing  can  avail, 
Good  sir ;  my  very  heart's  blood  has  turned  pale. 
Struck  by  God's  lightning,  do  you  talk  to  me 
Of  faintness  ?     Only  tell  your  tale — speak,  speak ; 
You  saw  him  die  ? 

SURGEON. 

I  did ;  right  tranquilly 

He  passed  away  this  morning,  with  your  name 
Upon  his  lips — for  you  are  Helena  ? 

THE  LADY. 
I  am. 

SURGEON. 
I  saw  your  picture. 

(Aside.)  Yes,  the  same. 

Hair,  eyes.     What  Titian  tints  ! 

(Speaks)  He  made  me  lay 

Your  letters  and  your  picture  on  his  heart 
Before  he  died ;  he  would  not  from  them  part 
For  e'en  one  moment. 


BY  THE  DEAD. 


75 


THE  LADY. 

Lift  them  not,  they're  mine ; 
My  hand  alone  must  touch  the  holy  shrine 
Of  love  and  death  where  the  poor  relics  lie — 
Darling  (bends,  and  kisses  the  letters),  because  you  loved 
them ! 

Let  them  die, 

Go  to  the  grave  with  him,  there  on  his  breast, 
Where  I  would  gladly  die  too — be  at  rest 
Forever. — And  he  spake  of  me  ? 

SURGEON. 

He  said 
That  you  would  come,  for  he  had  sent  you  word. 

.THE  LADY. 

I  ne'er  received  it ;  'twas  by  chance  I  heard, 
A  passing  chance. 

SURGEON. 
The  lines  were  down — 

THE  LADY. 

And  may 

They  never  rise  again  that  failed  that  day, 
And  left  him  dying  here  !     Go  on ;  he  said — 


7  6  TWO    WOMEN. 

SURGEON. 

That  you  would  come,  and  grieved  that  o'er  his  head 
The  turf  might  close  ere  you  could  reach  his  side 
And  give  him  one  last  kiss. 

And  then — he  died. 

THE  LADY. 
No  more  ? 

SURGEON. 

No  more.     Ah,  yes,  one  other  thing : 
Short  time  before,  he  feebly  bade  me  bring 
That  package  on  the  table — but  'tis  torn — 
Some  one  has  opened  it !     It  looked  well  worn, 
In  old,  unbroken  foldings  when  I  brought 
It  from  his  satchel.     Who  could  thus  have  wrought 
On  other's  property  ? 

THE  LADY. 

The  owner.— Then 
He  said — 

SURGEON. 

To  give  it  you,  for  you  would  know 
Its  history,  and  where  it  swift  should  go ; 
The  name  was  writ  within. 

THE  LADY  (aside). 

Yes,  love ;  amen  ! 
Be  it  according  to  thy  wish. 


BY  THE  DEAD.  77 

(Speaks.)  Pray  take 

This  fee,  good  sir.     I  would  that  for  his  sake — 
Your  kindness  to  him — I  could  send  your  name 
Ringing  through  all  the  West  in  silver  fame. — 
At  dawn,  you  said,  the  burial  ?     Then  leave 
Me  here  alone  with  him.     I  well  believe 
You'll  show  me  further  kindness.     Speak  no  word 
Beyond  your  doctor's  art  to  that  poor  child 
Who  weeps  below.     I  would  not  that  she  heard 
Aught  more  of  grief. 

[Exit  SURGEON. 
Ah !  all  my  passion  wild 

Has  gone ;  now  come  the  softening  woman  tears. — 
Forgive  me,  great  Creator,  that  I  spake 
In  my  sharp  agony.     O  do  thou  take 
The  bitterness  from  out  my  soul ;  I  know 
Naught,  but  thou  knowest  all !     Then  let  my  woe, 
The  poor  blind  woe  we  short-lived  mortals  bear, 
Be  my  sad  plea. — 

I  knew,  through  my  despair, 
You  loved  me  to  the  last.     Death  had  no  fears 
For  you,  my  love ;  you  met  him  with  my  name, 
As  talisman  of  the  undying  flame 
That  leaps  o'er  the  black  chasm  of  the  grave 
And  mounts  to  heaven.     But  I  will  not  rave, 
When  you  died  softly. 


78  TWO    WOMEN. 

Ah !  you  love  me  there 
As  well  as  here.     God  never  made  me  fair 
For  nothing ;  now,  I  know  the  gift  he  gave 
That  I  might  take  my  place  with  you  at  last, 
Equal  in  loveliness,  though  years  had  passed 
Since  you  first  breathed  the  air  above  the  skies, 
The  beauty-giving  air  of  paradise. 
Fair  are  you  now,  my  love,  but  not  like  me : 
Mine  is  the  goddess-bloom,  the  rarity 
Of  perfect  loveliness  ;  yours,  the  bright  charm 
Of  strong  young  manhood,  whose  encircling  arm 
Could  bend  me  like  a  reed.     Oh,  for  one  clasp 
Of  that  strong  arm  ! — 

Hist !  was  not  that  the  hasp 
Of  the  old  door  below  ?     She  comes ;  I  hear 
Her  light  step  on  the  stair. 

Darling,  no  fear 

Need  trouble  you  upon  your  couch;  to  me 
A  sacred  trust  this  gentle  girl  shall  be 
Through  life.     Did  you  not  love  her  once  ? 

THE  MAIDEN  (entering). 

I  pray 

Forgiveness  thus  to  leave  you  here  so  long ; 
I  did  not  mean  it,  but  I  swooned  away 
Before  I  knew  it. 


BY  THE  DEAD. 

THE  LADY. 

Thanks.     There  was  no  wrong ; 
I  liked  the  vigil. 

THE  MAIDEN  (going  to  the  bedside). 

Sweet  those  eyes — the  brow 
How  calm  !     I  would  not  bring  life  to  him  now 
E'en  if  I  could ;  gone  to  his  God — at  rest 
From  all  earth's  toil. 

Dear  love,  upon  thy  breast 
I  lay  my  hand ;  I  yield  thee  back  to  Him 
Who  gave  thee  to  me ;  and,  if  thou  hast  wrought 
Wrong  to  our  troth  in  deed,  or  word,  or  thought, 
I  now  forgive  thee.     Sleep  in  peace ;  the  dim, 
Dark  grave  has  its  awaking. 

As  the  hart 

Longed  for  the  water-brooks,  so  have  I  yearned 
For  token,  Willie,  that  thy  love  returned 
To  me  at  last.     Lo !  now  I  can  depart 
In  peace. — My  picture,  letters !     Thou  wast  true, 
Wast  true  to  me,  thank  God ! — 

(  Turning?)  Madam,  to  you 

I  owe  apology. 

THE  LADY. 

Never!     But  throw 


8o  TWO    WOMEN. 

Your  gentle  arms  around  me — thus.     And  so 
Give  me  a  blessing. 

THE  MAIDEN. 

But  I've  robbed  you — you 
Who  loved  him  also ;  though  to  me  was  due 
This  love  of  his ;  at  least — 

THE  LADY. 

Sweet  doubter,  yes ; 

I  grant  thee  all.     But,  as  I  kneel,  O  bless 
This  heart  that  bows  before  thee  ;  all  its  sin — 
If  it  be  sin — forgive ;  and  take,  within 
Thy  pure  love,  me,  thy  sister,  who  must  live 
Long  years — long  years !     O  child,  who  dost  forgive 
More  than  thou  knowest,  lay  thy  sister-hand 

In  blessing ! 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Though  I  do  not  understand, 
Yet  will  I  thus  content  thee :  Now  the  Lord 
Bless  thee,  and  keep  thee  by  his  holy  word ; 
Be  gracious  to  thee,  that  thy  faith  increase ; 
Lift  up  his  countenance,  and  give  thee  peace, 
Now  and  forever ! 

THE  LADY. 

Amen.     May  it  prove — 
This  peace — what  thou  dost  think  it. 


BY   THE  DEAD. 

THE  MAIDEN. 

I  must  go ; 

The  horses  wait  for  me.     Now  that  I  know 
He's  safe  with  God,  the  living  claim  my  care. — 
My  mother — ah,  full  selfish  was  the  love 
That  made  me  leave  her  so ;  I  could  despair 
Of  mine  own  self,  if  God  were  not  so  good, 
Long-suffering,  and  kind. 

O  could  I  stay ! 

But  I  must  reach  the  train  at  break  of  day. 
I  take  my  letters  and  the  picture. — Should 
Your  duties  call  you  not  so  soon,  oh  wait, 
See  his  dear  head  laid  low  by  careful  hand, 
And  say  a  prayer  above  the  grave. 

THE  LADY  (aside). 

O  Fate, 

How  doth  she  innocently  torture — rack 
My  soul  with  hard  realities  !     I  stand 
And  hear  her  talk  of  graves  ! — O  God,  the  black, 
Damp  earth  over  my  darling ! 

THE  MAIDEN  (turning  to  the  bedside). 

Love,  farewell ! 

I  kiss  thee  once. — Lady,  you  do  not  mind  ? 
It  was  but  once.     I  would  not  seem  unkind ; 

I  would  not  wound  you  needlessly, 
ii 


82  TWO    WOMEN. 

THE  LADY  (aside). 

O  swell, 
Proud  heart,  to  bursting,  but  gainsay  her  not ! 

THE  MAIDEN. 

I  know  full  well  that  yours  the  harder  lot, 
Dear  lady ;  but,  forgive  me,  he  was  mine 
Long,  long  before.     It  were  too  much  to  ask 
That  I  should  not  be  glad  his  heart  returned 
To  me,  his  bride  betrothed — to  know  he  yearned 
For  me  before  he  died.     I  cannot  mask 
My  joy  because  you  loved  him  too. 

THE  LADY. 

Nay,  thine 

All  joy  that  thou  canst  take;  I  would  not  rob 
Thee  of  one  little  hair's-breadth. 

THE  MAIDEN  (laying  her  head  on  the  pillow). 

Oh,  farewell, 
My  love  !  my  love !  my  love  !  [  Weeps. 

THE  LADY. 

Child,  do  not  sob. 

Come  to  me — let  me  hold  you ;  who  can  tell, 
Perhaps  he  hears  you,  though  so  still.     We'll  stand 


EARTH  TO  EARTH.  83 

Together  by  his  side — thus,  hand-in-hand — 
And  gaze  on  his  calm  face. 

WOMAN  OF  THE  HOUSE  (below). 

The  wagon's  here. 

THE  MAIDEN. 

Alas !  and  I  must  hasten.     Kiss  me,  dear ; 
Indeed,  I  love  you  now. 

THE  LADY. 

And  I  have  tried 
To  make  you.  \They  embrace. — Exit  MAIDEN. 

THE  LADY  (throwing  herself  douun  beside  the  body). 
Meredith,  art  satisfied  ? 


EARTH    TO    EARTH. 

WRAPPED  in  his  cloak,  they  bore  him  forth  at  dawn, 
The  soldier  dead,  dead  in  his  gallant  strength, 
Young  manhood's  prime.     The  heavy  fold  withdrawn 
Showed  his  calm  face,  while  all  his  rigid  length 
Lay  stiff  beneath  the  covering,  the  feet 


84  TWO    WOMEN. 

Turned  up  to  heaven  like  marble.     Breezes  played 
Soft  in  his  curling  hair,  the  fragrance  sweet 
Of  the  wild-brier  roses  incense  made, 
And  one  bird  sang  a  chant. 

Yet  recks  it  not, 

This  quiet  body  going  to  its  grave, 
Feet  foremost,  folded  hands,  if  the  storm  rave 
Or  the  sun  shine.     Henceforth  nor  part  nor  lot 
Hath  it  with  men — the  tale  is  told,  all's  o'er ; 
Its  place  shall  know  its  step,  its  voice,  no  more ; 
Its  memory  shall  pass  away ;  its  name, 
For  all  its  evil  or  for  all  its  worth, 
Whether  bedecked  with  reverence  or  blame, 
Shall  soon  be  clean  forgotten. — 

Earth  to  earth ! 

The  lady  walked  alone.     Her  glorious  hair 
Still  held  its  roses  crushed ;  the  chill  despair 
That  numbed  her  being  could  not  dim  the  light 
Of  all  her  flashing  jewels,  nor  the  bright 
Sheen  of  her  draperies. 

The  summer  sun 

Rose  in  the  east  and  showed  the  open  grave 
Close  at  her  feet ;  but,  ere  the  work  begun — 
Lowering  the  clay  (O  proud  humanity ! 
Is  this  thy  end  ?) — she  gentle  signal  gave 


EARTH  TO  EARTH.  85 

To  lay  the  body  down,  and,  by  its  side 
Kneeling,  kissed  brow  and  lips,  fondly  as  bride 
Might  kiss ;  and,  as  she  clung  there,  secretly 
A  shining  ring  left  on  the  cold  dead  hand, 
And  covered  it  from  view ;  then  slowly  rose 
And  gave  them  place. 

But  ere  the  tightening  rope 
Had  done  its  duty,  o'er  the  eastern  slope 
Rode  horsemen,  and  the  little  group  of  those 
Who  gazed,  drew  back,  and  eyed  askance  the  band. 
They  turned,  they  drew  their  reins — a  sight  to  see 
Indeed,  this  lady  clad  so  royally, 
Alone,  beside  a  grave. 

She  raised  her  eyes, 

And  the  bold  leader  bared  his  lofty  head 
Before  her  to  his  saddle-bow ;  the  guise 
Of  bold,  rough-riding  trooper  could  not  hide 
The  gallant  grace  that  thus  its  homage  paid 
To  so  much  beauty.     At  his  signal  mute, 
The  little  band,  Kentucky's  secret  pride, 
His  daring  followers  in  many  a  raid 
And  many  a  hair-breadth  'scape,  made  swift  salute, 
And,  all  dismounting,  honor  to  the  dead 
Paid  silently,  not  knowing  'twas  their  own 
Bullet  by  night  that  laid  him  there  : — so  strange 
The  riddle  of  men's  life,  its  little  range 


86  TWO    WOMEN. 

Thick  with  crossed  fates,  though  each  one  stands  alone 
To  mortal  eyes. 

The  rope  slackened,  the  clay 
Had  reached  its  final  resting-place.     Then  she 
Who  loved  him  best,  in  all  her  rich  array 
Stepped  forth,  and,  kneeling,  with  her  own  hands  cast 
The  first  clod  on  his  heart.     "  I  yield  to  thee, 
Nature,  my  only  love.     Oh,  hold  him  fast 

As  sacred  trust ! 

'  Earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust !  ' 
Then,  rising,  with  her  lovely  face  upturned 
To  the  clear  sky,  where  the  first  sunbeams  burned, 
"  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  lives,"  she  said ; 
"  He  that  believes  on  him,  though  he  were  dead, 
Yet  shall  he  live !  " 

And  so  passed  from  their  sight. 

The  troopers  ride  away, 
On  to  the  south ;  the  men  who  fill  the  grave 
With  hurried  shovelfuls  in  whispers  say, 
"  That's  part  of  Morgan's  band."    And  one,  a  slave, 
Looks  down  the  road,  and  mutters  :  "  That  was  him — 
Young  Cap 'en  Morgan's  self!     These  eyes  is  dim, 
But  they  knows  Morgan  !  Morgan !— what !  why,  bless 
Your  hearts,  /  know  him,  and  I  know  Black  Bess — 
'Twas  Bess  he  rode." 


WASHINGTON.  87 

And  now  the  work  is  done ; 
On  from  their  northern  raid  the  troopers  pass 
Fleet  to  the  south;  the  grave  is  filled,  and  gone 
Even  the  slave. 

Forever  still,  alone, 

Her  letters  and  bright  picture  on  his  breast, 
Her  sparkling  spousal-ring  on  his  dead  hand, 
The  golden-haired  young  soldier  lies  at  rest 
Where  o'er  his  head  the  steely  shadows  pass, 
Far  in  the  fair  Kentucky  border-land, 
The  lovely,  rolling  land  of  the  Blue  Grass. 


1864. 
WASHINGTON. 

THE  LADY  (with  an  open  letter]. 
MARRIED  !     Nay,  now  the  little  vexing  fear 
That  troubled  the  calm  hollow  of  my  grief 
With  its  small  aching  is  withdrawn,  and  clear 
The  certainty — she  never  loved  him.     Brief 
Her  forgetting — brief! — But  I  will  not  chide; 


88  TWG    WOMEN. 

All  happiness  go  with  thee,  gentle  bride, 
And  of  my  gold  a  sister's  share ! 

Towed 

Another,  and  once  his !     O  golden  head 
Under  the  grass,  how  jealous  is  my  heart 
Of  thy  remembrance !     Yet  I  should  be  glad 
She  loved  thee  not,  for  then  no  evil  part 
I  played,  e'en  though  unconsciously. 

Oh,  mad, 

Mad,  mad  my  love  for  thee  !  the  same  to-day — 
The  same,  the  same.     I  could  not  be  a  wife — 
I  could  not  stop  the  sun !     No  love  but  thee, 
My  own,  my  own !  no  kiss  but  thine — no  voice 
To  call  me  those  sweet  names  that  memory 
Brings  back  with  tears.     Ah  !  had  I  any  choice, 
I  still  must  love  thee  down  beneath  the  sod 
More  than  all  else — though  grandest  soul  that  God 
Had  ever  made  did  woo  me.     Love,  my  heart 
Is  thine,  and  ever  must  be  thine  ;  thy  name 
Is  branded  there ! 

Yet  must  I  live  my  life. 

SERVANT  (announcing). 
The  Count. 

THE  LADY. 
Another  ?     Ah !  poor  fools.     The  game 


WASHINGTON. 


89 


Doth  while  away  my  time.     Yes,  I  do  play 
My  part  with  smiles  that  are  not  wholly  feigned, 
For  life  is  strong,  and  I  am  young. — There  reigned 
A   queen   once,   who,   though   dead,   could    not    lay 

down 

Her  long-used  sceptre ;  with  her  jeweled  crown 
Upon  her  head,  she  sat  and  meted  out 
Reward  and  justice ;  nor  did  any  doubt 
Her  life  was  gone.     Were  not  her  robes  the  same — 
Her  jewels  bright  ?     And  had  she  not  a  name 
Borne  wide  upon  the  winds  for  loveliness  ? 
She  could  not  stop — she  needs  must  reign — noblesse 
Oblige  !    So  I. 

But  she — married !  a  wife ! 
Who  once  was  his !     Oh,  horrible  !  a  life 
Of  treason  to  his  memory,  a  long 
Lie !     But,  ah !  no,  she  never  loved  him.     / 
Do  hold  myself  as  his,  and  loyally, 
Royally,  keep  my  vow. 

SERVANT. 

What  shall  I  say, 
Madam  ? 

THE  LADY  (speaks). 
Show  in  the  Count. 

12 


9o  TWO    WOMEN. 

(Aside.)  Ah!  well-a-day! 

One  must  do  something. 

THE  COUNT  (entering). 

Madame  ^Je  viens — 


LAKE    ERIE. 

THE  MAIDEN  (rising  from  her  knees). 
MY  marriage-morning !     Lord,  give  me  thy  grace 
For  the  new  duties  of  a  wedded  life. 

The  letters  have  I  burned ; 
And  now — the  picture.     Oh,  dear  boyish  face, 
One  look — the  last !     Yet  had  I  been  thy  wife, 
Willie,  I  had  been  true  to  thee — returned 
All  thy  affection  to  the  full. 

She  said 

Love  was  "  a  sacrifice."     It  is ;  as — thus : 
Get  thee  behind  me,  Past !  {.Burns  the  picture. 

— Which  one  of  us 

Was  truest  ?     But  why  ask  ?     She  wronged  the  dead 
With  many  lovers — nay,  her  very  dress 
Showed  not  one  trace  of  sorrow. 


LAKE  ERIE. 

— I  confess 

I  never  thought  her  fair,  although  the  throng 
Do  call  her  so,  they  tell  me. 

— Long,  how  long 

I  wore  the  heavy  crape  that  checked  my  breath, 
And  went  about  as  one  who  sorroweth ; 
And  I  did  sorrow !     Slow  months  passed,  and  I 
Gave  every  thought  to  tearful  memory ; 
My  grief  grew  selfish. 

Then — he  brought  his  suit — 
My  mother  wept  and  prayed.     What  right  had  I 
To  crush  two  lives  ?     If  by  the  sacrifice 
I  make  them  happy,  is  it  not  large  price 
For  my  poor,  broken  years  ?     How  earnestly 
I  strove  to  do  the  right ! 

The  patient  fruit 

Of  years  of  prayer  came  to  my  aid,  and  now 
I  stand  in  bridal  white.     Lord,  hear  my  vow : 
Oh,  may  I  make  him  happy !     Not  a  thought 
Of  any  other  love  shall  mar  the  troth 
I  give  for  this  life.     Evils,  troubles,  naught 
But  death,  shall  part  us.     Thus  the  marriage-oath. 
But  after— then—O  Willie  ! 

THE  MOTHER  (entering). 

Art  thou  dressed  ? 


91 


92 


TWO    WOMEN. 


That's  well,  dear  one.     Never  has  mother  blessed 
A  child  more  dutiful,  more  good. 

Come,  love, 
The  bridegroom  waits. 


THE  END. 


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